One evening, in the third week of December, he and I were in the Baron's room chatting, when a ring came at the door, and I found the Baron himself, looking very tired and fagged. He almost staggered into his sitting-room, brushing past Karl on his way. He was dressed in different clothes, and I scarcely recognised him at first.
"Who's that, Dickson?" he demanded sharply. "I thought I told you I forbade visitors here! Send him away. I want to talk to you."
I obeyed, and when he heard the door close the Baron, who I noticed was travel-worn and dirty, with a soiled collar and many days' growth of beard, said:
"Don't have anybody here—not even your best friend, Dickson. You'd admit no stranger here if you knew the truth," he added, with a meaning look. "Fortunately, perhaps you don't."
Then, after he had gulped down the cognac I had brought at his order, he went on:
"Now, listen. In a little more than a week it will be New Year's day. On that day there will arrive for me a card of greeting. You will open all my letters on that morning, and find it. Either it will be perfectly plain and bear the words 'A Happy New Year' in frosted letters, or else it will be a water-colour snow scene—a house, bare trees, moonlight, you know the kind of thing—with the words 'The Compliments of the Season.' Upon either will be written in violet ink, in a woman's hand, the words in English, 'To dear Heinrich.' You understand, eh?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Good," he said. "Now, I gave you two telegrams before I left. If the card is a plain one, burn it and despatch the first telegram; if coloured, then send the second message. Do you follow?"
I replied in the affirmative, when, to my surprise he rose, and instead of entering his bedroom to wash, he simply swallowed a second glass of brandy, sighed, and departed, saying:
"Remember, you know nothing—nothing whatever. If there should be any inquiries about me, keep your mouth closed."