We discussed our plan of defence, and then, feeling a strong desire to keep watch upon the Count, I went off again towards the village. Avoiding the road I struck into a wooded path, keeping as much under cover as possible. It was well that I did so. When about half-way to the village I caught sight of a well-known figure crossing a field. Furello. He was walking fast, hurrying it seemed, and smoking a cigar. From my screen within the fringe of a small wood I had a full view of him without the risk of being noticed. The ground he crossed was undulating. He ran down the little hills, and once or twice halted on the top of an ascent to look round. Presently, when he had gone a safe distance, I came out of my shelter and followed him. Knowing the country probably better than he, I was able to keep him in sight at no great distance, marking him from the other side of a straggling hedge. Soon he came in view of Von Lindheim’s house, peeping out from the trees on the hill above us. He stopped a few moments looking at it, then glanced round, made a peculiar gesture, perhaps of contempt, shaking his hand at the house, and hurried on.
“He is going to the railway station,” I said to myself, and so it proved. Following him as closely as I dared, I was in time to see him get into a train and take his departure in the direction of Buyda.
“So far good,” I exclaimed, turning back. “It is as well I saw my gentleman off, or we should have been worrying as to what had become of him. But what has he been doing here?”
Speculation on that head was manifestly futile. The two men were relieved to hear of his departure, although much exercised to know what agency he had left behind him. We dined and made ourselves as happy as our forebodings would allow. After dinner we opened a packet of newspapers which had arrived, and proceeded to post ourselves in the doings of the outside world. I was deep in a week-old Times, when a sudden exclamation from Von Lindheim made me look up.
“Tyrrell!” he cried, “what, in Heaven’s name, does this mean?”
“What?”
“Listen.” He read from the paper as follows:—
“Accident to an Englishman on the Alps. A party of Englishmen were ascending the Weisshorn on Tuesday last. While attempting to scale a difficult peak, one of the party, who were roped together, lost his footing, and, the rope being slack, the shock of his fall was communicated with violence to the rest of his companions. The whole party fell a considerable distance, but happily were saved from going to certain death by the strenuous exertions of their two guides, Jean Koller and Barthelmy Reiss. One of the party was the well-known Alpine climber, Professor Seemarsh, of London, who sustained a broken collar-bone.”
Szalay and I had by a common impulse sprung to our feet.
“Professor Seemarsh!” I snatched the paper and read the name for myself. “There is only one Professor Seemarsh. Then who is this man?”