The Trail of the Dead/Chapter 2
II.—THE MYSTERY OF THE LEMSDORF HAM.
HOW Rudolf Maniac, the venerable savant, brought about the death of his rival and critic, Professor Von Stockmar, of Heidelberg University, I have already explained. I have, moreover, related the accident by which my cousin, Sir Henry Graden, the famous explorer and scientist, chanced to be visiting me, a student of medicine at the German University; and I have endeavoured to outline the steps by which the baronet arrived at the discovery of the crime that had been committed. I have now to tell of the pursuit of Marnac, the murderer, a pursuit as strange in its outset as it was terrible in its conclusion. For this, the first adventure in the chase of this inhuman monster, it may be said that I have chosen a fanciful title. Yet "The Mystery of the Lemsdorf Ham" is too appropriate to be neglected for that reason.
At the first the Heidelberg police met our theory of Von Stockmar's death with incredulity. When they moved in earnest, it was too late; all trace of Professor Marnac had been lost. It was discovered that he had taken from his rooms a small travelling valise and a considerable sum in ready money; but beyond these facts nothing was known; even his manner of leaving Heidelberg was a mystery.
For myself, the weeks that followed were in every respect intolerable. From a peaceful student I found myself transformed into a secret ally of the police, an unhappy being whose privacy was liable to be disturbed at all hours by some inquisitive official. Even worse, the authorities had detained my cousin, and those who are intimates of Sir Henry Graden will understand that I suffered at his hands. In the capture of the murderer—as we knew Marnac to be—he took a passionate interest. He was for ever in my rooms, denouncing the authorities for their delay, advancing theories, or cursing his own inaction. The lieutenant in charge of the Heidelberg police went in absolute terror of the Englishman, and, indeed, refused all interviews in which he was not adequately protected by his satellites.
On a calm October morning I was sitting reading by my window, thankful of the momentary quiet I enjoyed, when the door burst open and my cousin come frolicking into the room. I admit the absurdity of the expression when applied to a middle-aged giant of sixteen stone; but frolicking describes it. Without a word of apology he seized my book, a new edition of Smallwood's "Digestive Organs of Molluscs," and flung it into the fireplace. It was too much.
"Henry Graden," said I, starting up indignantly, "you are my cousin, but you presume on that relationship. These schoolboy antics are insupportable."
"Capital, Robert! capital!" he answered, regarding me with a comical expression. "By Gad! there's stuff in the boy! You'd like to punch my head, I suppose?"
I was somewhat ashamed of my outburst, and picked up the book, which was greatly damaged, before I replied.
"It's all very well, cousin Graden," I said, sulkily enough. "But between you and the police, I am worried to death."
"Good! Then you can have no objection to leaving Heidelberg this afternoon."
"Leave Heidelberg? Why should I leave Heidelberg?"
He strode over to where I stood and laid his great hand on my shoulder with a touch that implied an apology.
"A schoolboy you called me just now. That's just what I am, a schoolboy let loose in the playground. The police have raised their embargo. An address which will bring me when they have need of my evidence—that is all they ask. Now, I want a travelling companion—a man I can trust. You can guess my errand. Cousin Robert. Before a week is out I shall have my hand on him, I shall, by Heaven! You will come with me? Good lad, I knew it. The train leaves at three. I'll call for you."
"But where are we going?" I shouted, running to the door; for already he was down a score of stairs.
"St. Petersburg. You have a passport?"
"Yes—but Cousin Graden, Cousin Graden, I say"
It was no use. I heard the street door slam behind him. St. Petersburg—and the winter coming on. Eugh! I had always detested cold. But next to escaping misfortune it is best to possess a philosophic mind. I commenced to pack my bag with my warmest underwear.
At thirty-five minutes past two, Graden sent up word to say that he had a cab waiting my pleasure, and in three minutes more my luggage was upon it. Half-way down the main street we chanced upon Mossel, the fat lieutenant of police. He glanced at us keenly with, as I thought, a certain suspicion. Graden saluted him coldly, muttering maledictions upon him for a stupid ass. There was no great friendship between the two. I paid the cab while my cousin saw to the tickets. Five marks provided us with a subservient guard and an empty carriage.
"And what are your plans for this intolerable Petersburg expedition?" I asked, as the train thumped its way out of the station.
"We are not going to St. Petersburg. We are going to Lemsdorf."
"To Lemsdorf! I have never heard of the place."
"No more had I an hour ago. Allow me to discover it."
He pulled a red-bound Baedeker out of his pocket and fluttered through the pages.
"Here we have it—'Lemsdorf: fourteen to fifteen hours from Berlin. Rising town in West Prussia. 12,000 inhabitants. Large dye-works. 'Prinz von Preussen,' 'Goldner Adler' hotels well spoken of. Cab from the station, 75 pg. Little of historical interest. Excursions to Denker and the Huren, a wild and desolate district with several large lakes, on the Russian frontier.' Not altogether an inviting prospect at the latter end of October, eh, Cousin Robert?"
"I did not imagine we were going there for pleasure."
"Pessimist! Do neither the 'Prinz von Prussen' nor the 'Goldner Adler,' 'well spoken of,' as Baedeker describes these hostelries, attract you? Then the dye-works, they are sure to be interesting."
"Henry Graden," cried I with determination, "you try me too far! I am as eager as yourself that this criminal should be brought to justice. For this reason alone I have every right to know the why and wherefore of an expedition which will entail upon me, as I see clearly, the most extraordinary discomforts."
"It seems a pity, my dear cousin, that Nature, which endowed you with so many admirable qualities, should have omitted the saving grace of humour," he rejoined. And then changing his tone to a greater sobriety: "You shall hear all that I know or conjecture. It will, at least, help us on our journey.
"First, as to the facts at my disposal. For myself, I had heard much of Rudolf Marnac, but only as a Heidelberg professor of distinction, whose stupendous effort, 'Science and Belief,' had set educated Europe by the ears. From you I learnt of his quarrel with Von Stockmar, a quarrel originating in the latter's attack on the work in question, of which Marnac was inordinately vain. Then came the chain of facts that proved—to our mind, at least—that Marnac had murdered his colleague with a diabolical ingenuity. Could such a crime be inspired by a quarrel so trifling? It was almost past belief. Further evidence was necessary; and this evidence the investigations of the police have supplied.
"When I learnt that his father, Jean Marnac, had died in a Paris asylum, I began to see my way. But it was the statements of his servants that cleared my last doubt. An eccentricity which at one time amused them had of late been changed to a violence that filled them with terror. He had presented them with copies of the book, elaborately bound. A housekeeper who had served him for twenty years was loaded with abuse and discharged because the old creature admitted that she could not follow his arguments. He was the victim of a partial mania. Such cases are not uncommon.
"Whither had this dangerous creature fled? It seemed a mystery insoluble. He was well provided with money; on all topics but one he was admirably sensible. The police admitted that he had beaten them. But only yesterday I obtained a clue. It may be valueless; but for myself, I think otherwise. At least it is worth the journey I am asking you to make in my company.
"At my urgent request the police admitted me to his rooms. His papers they had already examined, without result. I found that he possessed a fine library. I am a book-lover, my first step was to examine it. Tucked away in a corner of a shelf, yet within easy reach of his customary chair, I found a volume. It was typical of the man that it should be elegantly bound. Within were collected the hostile criticisms with which his book had been loaded. The more severe were scribbled over with the vilest epithets. Von Stockmar was personally threatened, as was also a certain Mechersky, a professor of the Imperial University at Petersburg. I abstracted the volume. You may like to examine it."
He drew it from the capacious pocket of his travelling ulster and gave it to me. The cover was of the choicest morocco; upon it, in gold, were emblazoned the arms of the University. It was a triumph of the binder's art, yet I handled it with a singular feeling of disgust.
The interior was oddly divided. The greater part consisted of clippings from papers and magazines, neatly gummed upon blank pages. But here and there were interpolated pamphlets, held in their place by elastic bands. In contrast with this orderly arrangement, scarcely a page but was defaced by pencilled remarks, satirical or abusive. I ran through them hastily until I came upon the article which bore Mechersky's name, extracted apparently from some French review. Its severity seemed to have lashed Marnac to fury. It was covered with a maze of pencillings. But my attention was soon centred on a portion of the text which, being underlined in red, stood out from the page with some prominence. "The author of 'Science and Belief,'" for thus it ran, "seems to have lost touch with humanity. His deductions might be correct if men were bloodless, merciless automatons. He regards them as might some reptile—let us say, a toad scientifically inclined." Across this criticism, which seemed to me unnecessarily severe, was written in German: "Infamous scoundrel! Would that I might crush you like a toad!"
"A curious wish," I said, pointing to the passage.
"And from Marnac a most dangerous one," he answered. "I can only hope we shall reach Lemsdorf in time."
"Lemsdorf again! And why Lemsdorf?"
"For the excellent reason, Cousin Robert, that Mechersky, who comes of land-owning Polish stock, is holiday-making at Castle Oster, a place he has in that neighbourhood. And as sure as I sit here, where Mechersky is, there will be that madman, Rudolf Marnac. If he means to murder the man, he will have had nigh on a month to bring it off. Heaven grant that we're in time!"
The tone in which he spoke thrilled me with a dreadful anxiety. The danger was indefinable; but fear draws its darkest terrors from the unknown.
"One thing more," I said. "How did you discover Mechersky's whereabouts?"
"I had thought him at St. Petersburg; but a wire to a friend there gave me the information I required."
I have neither the necessity nor the inclination to dwell on that journey. It was very late when we rolled into the station of the good town of Leipsic, where we spent the night at a convenient hotel. Yet it was at an early hour that Graden roused me from a tired sleep to catch the Posen express. The country through which we now journeyed was of a melancholy similitude, and the broad plains, though reasonably cultivated, affected me with a mental depression which the cheery efforts of my companion could not conquer. The day was drawing to its close as we reached Posen and passed through that fortress city into a land of desolation. Gloomy pine woods, great lakes on which the dying sun threw patches of ruddy gold, forlorn heaths and swamps that, as I imagined, could scarce be equalled for sheer dismalness of aspect, slid by us in a never-ending chain. Save for the Eastern sky, glorified by the fiery sunset, the heavens were obscured by ponderous clouds of muddy grey that foretell the first snow of winter. Darkness had fallen when we changed carriages at a junction; but it was close upon midnight before my cousin, who had been sitting with a Continental Bradshaw on his knees, thrust his head out of the window and cried that the lights of Lemsdorf were in sight. Our luggage was piled upon an antiquated cab, and in ten minutes more the host of the "Goldner Adler," a thin, handsome Pole, was bowing a stately welcome to his guests. Supper—and then to bed.
The room assigned me was an oak-panelled apartment of considerable size, and the single candle with which I was provided seemed only to deepen the lurking shadows round the walls. The huge china stove failed to warm a place so thoroughly ventilated by draughts. At another time the cause of our journey, combined with the uncanny nature of these surroundings, might have acted on my nerves. But I was too weary, too angry with my present discomfort, to give opportunity to fanciful terrors. The bed was small, and in all probability damp. I took off my coat, rolled myself in a thick travelling rug, heaped the clothes upon me, and blowing out the candle I had placed on a table at my elbow, lay down to sleep.
How long I may have slept I cannot say, but I was awakened by a sudden flash of light that struck like a blow through the darkness. For a score of seconds, it may have been, I lay motionless. The room was in utter darkness and silence. Then I heard a footfall, a creaking of a door. I sprang from my bed, only to trip and fall heavily over the rug which I had carried with me. I groped for the table, found it, and lit the candle, crouching, half expectant of some attack when I should reveal myself. I looked keenly about me—the room was empty.
But I had had a visitor, for the door was still ajar. I ran to it and, shading the light with my hand, peered down the passage. There was no one visible. I returned to the room, this time locking the door securely. Perhaps, after all, I reasoned, there had been no cause for my alarm. Some fellow-guest might have mistaken his chamber, retiring quickly on discovering his error. This argument heartened me, for, to be honest, I was shaken not a little. I examined the room carefully, without result; and then, after a composing cigarette, slipped back into bed, leaving the candle burning in the centre of the room.
It snowed that night, and to some effect, as the morning light showed me. The broad, slovenly street beneath my window was thickly coated; and though the fall had ceased, a dull sky, streaked as with muddy whitewash, threatened a further downfall. It was bitterly cold, and I flung on my clothes in a vile temper.
Graden was meditating before the stove when I entered our breakfast-room, with the strange book he had shown me during the journey in his hands.
"You look pale as a ghost. Are you quite fit?" he asked kindly.
"Oh, yes; though my night was not particularly peaceful."
"What do you mean?"
I told him briefly of my unknown visitor. He seemed greatly interested, questioning me minutely on various points.
"Your theory may be correct," he concluded. "Some guest may have mistaken his chamber and hurried off on discovering his mistake. Yet, if he had a light with him, how came he to make such an obvious error; whereas, if it was the striking of a match that roused you, what was the man doing wandering in the dark?"
"To tell the truth, when I first woke, I imagined it was Marnac himself."
"I have considered that point. I do not think it could have been he."
"And why?"
"Before you were down this morning I had a talk with our landlord. The guests at his house are of two classes—commercial travellers and those having business at the dye-works. They do not stay long—usually a week at most. Of the nine which he now has, none has exceeded that limit. He knows them all personally—six commercials, two dye-works men, and a rich Englishman, one George Wakefield, who has been staying with some magnate in the neighbourhood. But here is Herr Reski himself."
"Gentlemen," said the landlord, bowing low, "your sleigh is at the door."
"How far is it, then, to Castle Oster?" I asked him.
"Close on twenty miles; and with this fresh snow it will be heavy going."
Ten minutes later we slid on our silent runners, to the tinkle of the bells, out through the squalid, sprawling town, out through the wooden hovels of the suburbs, out past the dye-works, with their tall, melancholy chimneys, out into the snow-clad levels beyond, and there from out of the east there sprang upon us a great and bitter wind, chilled by its long journey over the boundless steppes of frozen Russia. Here and there, across the plains, a whiff of powdery snow, like the smoke of heavy guns, would leap up before the fiercer blasts, only to burst and fall as they lulled once more. To the south and east the pine-woods ranged their formal ranks, black against the dazzling carpet at their feet. It was a scene of utter desolation.
We drove in silence. Graden sat in a huddled mass, his chin buried in the great woollen comforter he wore, staring out over the plain with fixed, introspective eyes. For myself, I sat amongst the rugs beside him in vague speculation. What could be this danger that threatened the scientist from St. Petersburg in his home at Castle Oster? After all, might not our whole journey be a folly born of Graden's imaginings, a blind guess that had dragged us half across Europe? I shivered, and shivering, muttered anathemas on the climate.
We entered the forest. On every hand stood the pines, stretching away in long, melancholy avenues floored with drifted snow. The laden branches bowed before us, now and again, at the whirl of a passing gust, flinging their burdens from them. Once a willow grouse, white as the snow beneath it, swept on steady wing through the trees. Once from the far, far distance, borne upon the eastern breeze, there came a cry, a weird, hopeless echo in the air, that set the horses snorting. I knew what it must be—a wolf who felt the first pangs of the winter's hunger gathering round him. But there was no sign of man nor marks of sleigh tracks on the newly fallen snow.
We did not travel fast, though our driver did his best. The snow had not hardened and settled into that enchanting surface on which the runners speed so swiftly. Midday was past before we saw, through a sudden gap in the forest, a rising mound crowned with a low, grey building. "Castle Oster!" cried our driver, turning in his seat to claim our attention. In ten minutes more we had halted at a gate set in a high stone wall.
Before we were clear of our rugs the driver had slipped from his perch and tugged at a rusty iron bell-pull. We waited without an answer. Again he rang; but Graden did not wait the result. The door was not bolted; it opened to his vigorous arm, and we followed him into the broad courtyard of the Castle.
Before us sprawled the main building, flanked by little towers, like the pepper-box turrets of an old Scotch mansion. The windows were shuttered; the chimneys were smokeless save for one above the central porch, from which a dark plume rose and trailed away to the westward—the solitary sign of habitation. To our right and left were ranged outbuildings, stables, coach-houses, and the like; but all in a condition of ruinous decay. Patches fallen from the roofs laid bare the rafters; from the broken gutters trailed long pendants of ice. Against the old doors the snow had piled itself in heavy drifts. No sound broke the brooding stillness. It was a picture distressingly forlorn.
"Has Professor Mechersky, then, no servants?" asked Graden of our driver. I noticed that he hushed his voice in speaking; he, too, felt the uncanny influence of the place.
"Two, mein Herr—a man and a woman. I cannot think where they can be."
"I had understood he was a man of means. Why does he allow this disrepair?"
"I do not think the Professor cares. He shuts himself up with his experiments, when he is here—which is not often now. His rooms look to the south on the other side. For the rest, the house is not furnished."
"Well, I suppose there is a servant who will Heavens! what is that?"
From somewhere within the house there came a shriek, a cry of supreme terror. Again and yet again it was repeated before it shrank away into silence. Graden ran across the court to the main door, and I was hard upon his heels. He pulled the bell and hammered fiercely upon the heavy oak panels; but no one answered.
"I don't believe the thing is bolted," said he. "Keep the handle turned, and let me try what I can do."
He stepped back a dozen paces, and then came running at the door like a bull. The giant caught it squarely with the point of his shoulder; there was a sharp crack; the next instant we were both sprawling on the floor within.
We found ourselves in a great and dusty hall, indifferently lighted. Against the wall on my right I could dimly discern the figure of a woman crouched on the floor, sobbing bitterly, her face buried in her hands. She did not move, despite our violent entrance. At the foot of the main staircase an old man was bending over a something that lay motionless. He looked up at us with a white, pitiful face.
"He is dead—the master is dead!" he whimpered.
Graden strode up to him, and I followed at his heels.
Professor Peter Mechersky—for such I knew it must be—lay huddled under an old grey cloak that spread wing-wise from his neck, a blot upon the polished oak of the floor. From his face, thin though it was and wasted with disease, he must have been a middle-aged man who had preserved a singular beauty. He had died as a child might fall asleep. Yet the horror that he had escaped he had left to the living; for his attitude was abnormal, impossible, and ghastly to behold.
It was not right that a body should resemble an egg that is broken.
My cousin swept aside the cloak for a moment, and replaced it reverently, though with a hand that trembled.
"He has not a sound bone in his body," he muttered, and then, turning to the old servant, "How did this happen?" said he.
"He had been ill for some weeks, mein Herr, and we begged him not to leave his room. But to-day he declared himself better; he insisted that he should descend to the library. Half way down the stairs he tripped and fell. I ran to his side and found him, as you see him, crouched—like—like"
'Like a toad?"
"Yes, mein Herr, like a toad."
The man broke into hysterical weeping. Graden searched in his pocket, produced a flask of brandy, and prescribed a liberal dose. He seemed to revive under its influence.
"The Englishman, Herr Wakefield, was most anxious about my master's health," he stammered out. "The Herr Professor became indisposed some ten days after his arrival; since then he has been most kind, most considerate, sitting by the master's bed for hours. He would allow no other doctor to visit the master. He is a kind, good man, this doctor, the Herr Wakefield."
"So I believe. How came he to know your master?"
"I am not sure; but I think he brought a letter of introduction from a Professor Marnac, of Heidelberg, a gentleman of whom my master disapproved, yet admired for his learning."
"And this Englishman, did he prescribe for your master?"
"Of course. They loved each other, and sat late into the night in their discussions. When my poor master was taken ill, Herr Wakefield took complete charge of him. Ach! If he did but know what had happened!"
"Then he is not here?"
"No; he drove to Lemsdorf yesterday afternoon. He had to return to his own country. Ach! If he did but know!"
It was plain enough—Marnac the linguist was Wakefield the Englishman. It was he, new from this thing that he had done, who had come creeping to my room in the night, being suspicious of the strangers from the South. It was he that had brought about this mysterious horror. I turned from the poor monstrosity upon the floor and leant, shuddering, against the wall. As I did so, Graden strode past me to the open door.
"Driver, can your horses take us back?" I heard him say.
"Not without rest and feed, mein Herr. The snow was very bad, and they are tired."
"Would a hundred marks to the driver assist them?"
"It is impossible. They could not reach half-way. Wait, mein Herr, and it may be done."
My cousin came up to me and laid his great hand upon my shoulder.
"I'm afraid it's the truth," he said. And then turning to the dead man's servant, "Your master—had he horses?" he asked.
"Three, mein Herr, but they have not yet returned from Lemsdorf, where they went this morning with the big sleigh for provisions."
With a sharp order Graden sent our driver hurrying to the stables. Then, with his arm linked in mine, we followed the old servant into a low-roofed dining-hall. As I dropped upon an oak settle before the great china stove, he thrust his flask into my hands and, with a word of encouragement, slipped away. I knew that he was re-examining the body, but, doctor though I was, the spirit of investigation had gone out of me. I could no more have assisted him than a medical student can watch, unmoved, his first operation.
In about twenty minutes he returned, bearing a tray upon which was set bread and cheese, flanking a great ham. I turned from the food with disgust; but my cousin fell to diligently, complaining the while at my folly in not eating when I had the chance.
"You must pull yourself together," he protested, with his mouth full. "Try this ham now. It isn't half bad."
More to humour him than with any intention of following his advice, I drew my seat to the table.
"Come, now, that's better," he cried, carving away. "To tell the truth, I haven't the slightest idea what that devil Marnac has been up to. But what I do know is that we've got to catch him—dead or alive. Therefore I recommend you to stoke up your body with this excellent—hallo!"
Knife and fork in the air, he sat motionless, staring at the dish before him.
"What's the matter now?" I asked irritably; for, indeed, his hearty appetite annoyed me.
For answer he rose and pealed the bell. The old manservant, with the brandy flushing his white cheeks, tottered into the room.
"I am sorry to trouble you," said Graden courteously, "but we both set such store by your hams that we wish to know where they can be obtained. Do you cure them yourself?"
"No, mein Herr, but it is done near by," answered the man, with a look of blank surprise.
"Indeed. The Lemsdorf ham is a discovery; it should make a stir. I wonder I had not heard of its merits before."
"You see, mein Herr, the big curing station has not long been established."
"A new enterprise?"
"Yes, mein Herr. It belongs to Herr Drobin, a South German. Two years ago he took the big farm at Gran, which you passed on your way here. It is this side of the dye-works. He has many pigs in the forest. His hams are becoming famous from Warsaw to Königsberg. It is said he has some secret in the feeding or curing—no one knows which."
"Thank you—that is all."
The door was scarcely shut when I turned hotly upon Graden. "How dare you sit here in this house of murder and talk of the excellence of the food?" I cried furiously. "It is shameful, indecent!"
"Yet we will visit the farm of Gran on our way back. I have some little inquiries to make."
"We shall do nothing of the sort," I snarled.
"If you were a soldier or an explorer, Cousin Robert," he said, leaning across and tapping me kindly on the arm, "you would know that in any expedition one alone can be responsible. The rest obey, whether they be few or many. As it is, I beg you to recognise that fact and to obey."
He was right, and I knew it. But to save appearances I walked to the window and stood drumming upon it with my fingers for a while before I answered him.
"Well, do as you please," I said at length.
"I think the sleigh may be ready by now," he said. "Come, let us go out and inquire."
There is no need to dwell on this miserable drive. The tired horses dragged slowly forward, the driver, sullen and frightened, urging them on with blows and curses. Mile after mile of pine-woods marched past us, but we did not speak, crouching in the furs. At last, as night was falling, we reached the edge of the forest and swung aside from the main road into a track that skirted the edge of the pines. The ground sank away into a hollow like the palm of the hand. At the lowest point I could see a square, wooden building flanked by rows of outbuildings. It was, as I imagined, the farm of Gran. But before we reached it, our driver suddenly drew up his horses. A man was advancing towards us through the trees. Our driver turned, and with a wave of the whip explained the situation.
"It is Herr Drobin," said he.
I was not favourably impressed with this breeder of pigs. He was an elderly man, full bodied, with white hair, that stuck out stiffly from under his fur cap, a red, bulbous nose, and shifty, suspicious eyes. He saluted us with a touch of his cap in military fashion.
"And what is your business, gentlemen?" he asked.
"It is less business than gratitude," said Graden courteously. "We have made this little pilgrimage to thank the producer of the Lemsdorf hams."
"You are not dealers, then?"
"No, but I"
"Then take yourself off!"
"Herr Drobin!"
"Go! clear out! Do I not make myself plain?" he cried, his flushed face nodding in time to his violent gesticulations. "I will have no spies about the place!"
Graden sprang out of the sleigh and strode up to the angry farmer. For a moment I thought there would be a scrimmage; but the huge bulk of his antagonist was not without its effect upon the German. I have often noticed that great stature has a curiously soothing influence on the bad temper of an opponent.
"Why did you call me a spy?" demanded my cousin.
"The people about here gossip of some secret I hold," he answered sulkily. "Perhaps they speak true; perhaps false. Who can say? At least, I am no longer a fool; my eyes have been opened. 'You have a good thing here, Herr Drobin. There is a great future before you, if only you keep your knowledge to yourself,' said the Englishman to me. 'If strangers come asking questions, they will be spies; send them away.' It was fine advice he gave me; anyone can see that. So be off with you!"
"I am an Englishman myself, Herr Drobin. May I ask my compatriot's name?"
"I do not remember."
"What, then, was he like?"
"I cannot describe him."
"You are discreet, Herr Drobin. Come, now, let us strike a bargain. I will make a guess at your secret; if I am right, you will tell me what you know of this Englishman."
The German started back, staring at Graden with little, bloodshot eyes, in which surprise and fury were oddly mingled. Then, side by side, they stepped into the shadow of the pines, whispering together.
"They are all liars, these Germans," said our driver confidentially, turning to me. "For myself, I am a Pole."
"You heard what was said. Do you know anything of this English visitor to Herr Drobin?"
"Most certainly, mein Herr. He was of the name of Wakefield. He has stayed several nights at the 'Goldner Adler.' For the rest, he has been the guest of him who lived out there," and he made a gesture down the road that we had come.
A nameless fear took me by the throat—a fear of unknown possibilities. I would have questioned the man more, but at that moment Graden and the farmer emerged from the shadow of the pines. The latter had abandoned his truculent manner. Indeed, he seemed oddly subservient. As Graden stepped into the sleigh, the man bowed low a curtsy, which my cousin answered with a curt nod of dismissal.
"Drive on!" he cried, and once more we were ploughing our way back to the Lemsdorf road.
"Did you ever study the properties of the root called madder, commonly known as a dye?" asked my cousin suddenly.
"No."
"Then I must explain from the beginning. It is right that you should hear."
He pulled the flaps of his deerstalker cap over his ears—indeed, it was bitter cold— and settled himself amongst the rugs. I caught the outline of his face—the jaws set, the cheeks drawn, the eye hard and keen, the whole purposeful and remorseless.
"When I was slicing the ham to-day," he continued, "an odd thing happened. My knife struck the bone and passed through it as if it had been putty. At a second glance I noticed that the interior of the section so divided was of a brownish red. It set me thinking. I began to remember certain facts. The talk of the old servant concerning a secret held by the owner of the pig-farm at Gran concentrated my suspicions, the proximity of the dye-works confirmed them. I was almost certain of Herr Drobin's secret before he charged me with coming to steal it.
"Let me explain. Madder is a dye, as you know. But administered to man or beast, it has the curious effect of colouring and pulping the bones to a gristle. It is used sparingly on a few South German pig-farms, that the hams may appear attractive when carved. Herr Drobin introduced it into German Poland. He obtained the root as he required it by arrangement with the dye-works. Perhaps their presence suggested the idea to him.
"Whether or no Marnac knew of the uses of madder before he came to Lemsdorf, I cannot tell. From my talk with Drobin it would seem that his visit to his farm was more or less of an accident. But, either way, the visit gave him the weapon by which he 'might make a toad' of his enemy. That bitter criticism, you may be sure, was for ever running in his diseased brain. The practical details he learnt at the farm would help him in—what he had undertaken. His advice to that old German was a sound move, designed to cover his visits to the farm and the suspicions they might afterwards have excited.
"His method of getting into touch with his victim was simple. He introduced himself as an Englishman by a letter which he himself wrote in his capacity of Heidelberg professor, well knowing that the police had not made public their suspicions of him. He assumed the name of Wakefield—the first that suggested itself to him—and the nationality of an Englishman, for, as we know, he spoke the language to perfection. He administered madder in some form until Mechersky grew ill; after which, in his position of medical attendant, the rest was easy. He fled when he knew that the end of the tragedy was at hand, that every bone of his victim was fragile as thin glass. Probably he caught a momentary glimpse of us in the 'Goldner Adler'; and his midnight visit was to assure himself of your identity. You were in great peril that night, Cousin Robert; I shudder to think how great.
"He has probably escaped to-day; there is a fast train to the west at twelve o'clock he could catch. But I vow before Heaven. I vow before you as my witness, that I will pursue this fiend until I have run him down. Heaven knows I have no hatred towards him. I feel to him as a man might feel towards a mad dog which is a danger to the peaceful men, women, and children of his village. It is the duty of the citizen to risk his life in its capture."
"Where do we go now?" I asked.
"To the railway. We must gather what news we can."
The winter night was falling drear and cold when our tired horses staggered up to the station door. I scrambled out, hungry, cramped, exhausted in body and mind, and followed my cousin within. The station was empty at the moment save for a distant corner where a man sat huddled on a travelling valise. We advanced at once upon him. When we were a dozen feet away, he started up and faced us.
It was Mossel, the lieutenant of the Heidelberg police.
"Any luck, mein Herr?" said he to Graden.
"What in the world are you doing here?" was the astonished answer.
"Well, mein Herr, I thought you knew something, and followed you. When I arrived this morning, I said to myself: 'The great white English ferret will be at work to-day searching for the rat. I will wait at the station like a net into which Mr. Ferret may turn the rat.'"
Graden skipped up to him and shook him warmly by the hand.
"Capital, Mossel, capital! And you—had the net any luck?"
"The net was sitting upon the rat's luggage when you arrived this moment. The net has been here for five hours, and is cold and hungry. The net is of opinion that the rat must have seen him and abandoned his luggage. He has not left by train."
"But he can escape in no other way. We have him, Mossel, we have him."
"So it would seem," said the lieutenant calmly.
* Copyright, 1902, by J. Fletcher Robinson and J. Malcolm Fraser, in the United States of America.