He gave an occasional glance at Von Lindheim, but quite naturally, his manner never showing the least preoccupation. To all appearances he was a genial, sociable man of the world, a state official merely by accident. In his careless way, however, he put a good many leading questions to me, principally as to my friendship with Von Lindheim, which I, affecting the part of a simple-minded sportsman, answered with a great show of frankness. Presently my friend laid his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let me hurry you,” he said, “but I think of going homewards.”
“Already? It is not so late for you, Herr von Lindheim,” Furello remarked almost chaffingly.
“I’m tired and feel out of sorts,” he replied as naturally as one could wish. “Good-night, Herr Count. Many thanks for the good offices you have promised me.”
“I’m a bird that goes to perch early. I’ll come too,” I said, bowing to the Count, who, to my disgust, held out his hand—the hand—which I was fain to take.
So we made our adieux and next minute were in the street.
CHAPTER VIII
THE BEATING OF DEATH’S WINGS
We had walked a hundred yards or more, and turned the corner of the street before either of us spoke. Then I said, “A narrow escape, my friend.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, scarcely above his breath, and, as he turned towards me, his face looked ghastly under the lamp.