Then there was silence, the silence of almost hopeless fear.
“What are we to do?” Szalay asked unsteadily.
Von Lindheim gave a shrug. Then, to relieve the tension, I spoke.
“Is it asking too much, as I mean to stand by you fellows, that you should tell me the reason of all this; what you saw last night?”
“Better not ask, my dear Tyrrell; the knowledge is fatal—too fatal, already. D’Urban is missing too,” he went on, in a fresh access of despair. “Poor D’Urban, dead by now, probably. And Orsova, you know.”
“I saw his death,” I remarked.
“In the papers to-night, yes.”
“No,” I returned quietly; “I was present at his death last night.”
“You?” they both gasped out.
“Assuredly. In the palace.”