The Red Chancellor

by Sir William Magnay

I nodded, thanked him, and went off.

I have often wondered since at the reality of the fate or Providence which ordained that I should forget that letter till the last minute before my intended start. At the moment I was annoyed at having let it slip my memory, and so omitted to utilize in fetching it the time I wasted in waiting for dinner. And yet, had I done so, I should have missed the extraordinary series of adventures, and something more, which that chance forgetfulness threw in my way.

For as I was retracing my steps from the Consul’s house to my hotel, a most startling thing happened.

It was now dark. The purely residential streets of the city were more or less deserted, and the houses closed for the night. I walked through a square and into a tree-lined street of old houses leading out of it in the direction of the Königstrasse.

I hardly know what made me stop, hesitate and cross the road at a particular point about midway up the street. My mind was busy with thoughts and plans, and my steps seem to have taken me across the road mechanically, without any definite design. But considering the consequences of that trivial act, I have always set it down to something stronger and more occult than mere chance. I remember casually noticing that the house towards which I crossed was lighted up, one of the first floor windows was open, and from it came the sound of a pianoforte. As I reached the kerb I was startled from my thoughts by an object which fell with a sharp click upon the pavement at my feet.

A small white fan.

I picked it up and looked round. No one was near. Then up at the house before which I was standing. There was nothing to be seen at the windows to indicate where the fan had dropped from; no shadow on the blinds, no movement to be seen within. Stepping back to look up, I noticed that one of the top windows was half-open, but there seemed no light in the room, and no sign of any one there. Then I looked at the fan in my hand. A plain but good one of white silk with ivory ribs. Too good at least to admit the suggestion that it had been deliberately thrown away as worthless. It had evidently been accidentally dropped out of the window, and I stood there momentarily expecting the door to open and a servant to come out and seek it. But no one came; so, after waiting awhile, I went up to the door, and rang.

Standing there ready to give in the fan with a word of explanation, I began to open and shut it carelessly, as, when waiting, one will fidget with the thing nearest to one’s hand. As in doing this, the light from above the door fell upon it, my casual glance was arrested by something I had not noticed before. There was pencilled writing across the fan. As I turned and held it up closer to read the words, footsteps sounded within, and I had scarcely made out the purport of the writing when the door opened. Simultaneously by a quick movement I closed the fan and dropped my hand, so that it was hidden behind me.

“Does Herr Steinmetz live here?” I stammered, using the first name that came to my tongue.

“No, mein Herr,” the servant answered, a dark, disagreeable-looking fellow, I thought, holding the door but a little way open and regarding me with manifest suspicion.