He moved off towards the stables and I let him go, judging there was not much information to be got out of him. But I resolved to try what under the circumstances was a pardonable piece of eavesdropping; so, after a feint of going into the hotel, I crept back and placed myself outside the stable window.
The ostler had evidently roused the sleeping coachman, and they were now rallying one another with rough pleasantry. Presently, “It’s all the bed I shall get this night,” the sleepy coachman exclaimed with a yawn. “Five hours’ hard driving to-day with scarce a minute for a schoppen of beer. Our Herr Bleisst can play the devil when he chooses, and the Herr Graf too.”
“He drives at the devil’s time, truly,” the ostler laughed. “Midnight, through the woods. Poor Carl! I shall remember you when I am snug in bed. Ah! You will be ready for breakfast when you reach the Geierthal to-morrow morning.”
They said nothing more to which I could attach any importance, but I had heard enough. It was only natural that I should connect this midnight journey with the message on the fan. One thing struck me as being particularly significant. At the Baroness’s house that afternoon, Count Furello had said that he was going to his home in the Geierthal; but why was he travelling at night and by road?
According to his coachman, his carriage had posted up from the Geierthal that morning, with such haste as hardly to give the man time to get refreshment. That circumstance, coupled with what I knew of the Count, enabled me to conceive a likely idea of what was going on. I went into the hotel, had some supper, and at half-past eleven was back in the gloomy street, which I found was called the Neckarstrasse. The house was dark and silent as I left it. I lighted a cigar and walked up and down, waiting for midnight, when I felt sure something would happen. I was not wrong. It wanted but a few minutes to the hour, when, stopping to turn, I could hear at some distance the rumble of a vehicle approaching at a walking pace. At first I thought it could not be what I expected; but as it turned into the street I saw that my suspicion was correct. It was the carriage I had seen in the hotel yard; it looked almost funereal, coming along at a foot’s pace, with its pair of big black horses. The slow rate of progression had the effect of making very little noise; if the carriage had dashed up to the door, probably half the street would have been roused. As it passed me, the light from a lamp fell on the rather flamboyant device on the panel, but I needed not that to make sure. It drew up at the door of the house whence the fan had come; I had followed close behind, and as the carriage stopped, I slipped unnoticed into the portico of the next house; a risky position to take up, but I was resolved, come what might, to see who the occupants of the carriage were to be. The coachman made no attempt to give notice of his arrival, but sat on his box motionless as I, leaning back in the shadow.
Presently, it may have been after ten minutes’ waiting, the driver’s head turned sharply towards the door, then I heard the click of the lock, and a man, the same who had opened the door to me, came out and looked up and down the street with an air of reconnoitring. Apparently satisfied, he spoke a few words in a low tone to the coachman and went quickly into the house again.
In a short time he reappeared with what seemed a basket and a travelling bag. These he placed inside the carriage. Then he brought out a valise, which, with the help of the coachman, he stowed away under the box. He now stood by the carriage door, waiting. I could hear people moving and speaking in a low tone. Then the man held the door open. I came forward, standing behind the pillar and leaning over the railing to get as good a view as possible. Two men came down the steps, conducting between them a lady so wrapped up and veiled that I could not have seen her face even from a nearer point of view. They were followed by a young woman, whom I seemed to recognize as she who had called herself Miss Seemarsh, but of this the darkness prevented my being sure. The man farthest from me I at once recognized as Count Furello. His was not a face to forget. He got into the carriage first, next the veiled lady was handed in by the other man, after which the second lady entered, the man shut the door, and jumped up to the box beside the coachman, who turned the horses and drove slowly off in the direction he had come. The footman stood looking after them till they were out of the street, then went in, and I came out from my hiding-place.
“They are taking that girl off to her death,” I cried, walking quickly after them; “nothing can be done by me to save her. But, hopeless as it may be, I will not leave her to these fiends without an effort to rescue her. Thank Heaven, I know their destination; if you are to die, my poor Asta, at least a friend shall be near you.”