The sun shining brightly into my room awoke me about five o'clock. I got up, dressed myself quickly, and went down to the kitchen, where Mizka had already kindled a bright fire on the hearth. She assured me that my coffee would be ready in a quarter of an hour and that she would bring it out to me in the garden. There I met the Captain, who, enjoying his morning pipe, was walking to and fro between the flower beds. Now and then he would stop before an opening rose, regarding it with eyes really full of affection. He greeted me cordially.
"You are an early riser, Herr Professor," he said with a smile. "I thought all those who lived in large cities never rose before eight o'clock, but I am glad that you are an exception, for the mornings and evenings with us are the most delightful time of the day. At noon the sun is far too hot and glowing to enable us to enjoy the beauty that lies about us here. Only look at these rosebuds, how beautiful they are, each one with a diamond dewdrop in its breast! Are they not enchantingly lovely?"
He chattered on, pointing out to me every blossom that delighted him, and taking positive joy in all. He conducted me through the garden, which was not very large, and at the end of it he unlatched a gate that was not locked.
"Now I must show you the only thing perhaps that we have worth showing in Luttach. Pray follow me," and he walked before me through the open garden gate. After a few steps we reached the banks of a broad, brawling brook, which seemed in all its breadth and force to come directly from out the rocky wall before us. The rock must certainly have been thoroughly undermined. From countless smaller and larger openings the crystal-clear water streamed with such power that the numerous jets instantly formed a broad deep brook.
"This is the Luttach. On the north side of Nanos the raging Voyna rushes through a savage rocky vale, suddenly vanishing without a trace; the mountain engulfs it. They say that the Voyna in the interior of Nanos forms a deep unfathomable lake and from this lake in the interior of the mountain it flows on, breaking through the rocks, to come to light again here as the Luttach brook. This may be possible, for Nanos, like the whole Karst range, is absolutely riddled with caves. The famous Adelsberg Grotto would not be the unparalleled wonder that it is, if our population were not too indolent to explore the hollow openings and grottoes in our side of the mountain. Why, in the immediate neighbourhood of Luttach there are two caves, the depth of which is known to none, for no one has ever taken the trouble to explore them, except for a few yards."
"What absolutely unconscionable neglect!" I rejoined. "If you could succeed in finding here a spring, a mineral spring as wonderful with its grottoes as that of Adelsberg, think of how it would attract travellers and what a goal it would be for all tourists."
The Captain shrugged his shoulders. "I really do not know whether our Luttach population would desire this. They certainly feel no wish for it at present. Besides, it is questionable if our grottoes are really very large in extent, and it is probable that their exploration would be attended with some difficulty and perhaps indeed danger. I have never thought of making an attempt to explore one or the other of these, but, if you desire to do so, Herr Professor, I shall be very glad to accompany you."
I joyfully accepted the Captain's offer. Under all circumstances the exploration of a cave, hitherto unknown, possesses for me extraordinary interest; in the depths of these caves in the Karst range are found rare cave beetles, the species is confined entirely to such places. It might well be possible to discover in the Luttach grotto a species hitherto unknown. Such a prospect made me forget the threatened difficulty and danger.
The Captain smiled when he heard the reason for my interest. That a human being should be ready to subject himself to inconvenience and even to danger that he might discover a new beetle appeared to him extremely ridiculous, but he was too polite to make this evident. He promised to look about for some strong, courageous men, who, armed with torches, ladders, and ropes, should accompany us into the caves.
"I hope," he said, "that you will reap a rich harvest of rare cave beetles, but even if you do not succeed you will be abundantly repaid by the beetles and butterflies which you will find on the slopes of Nanos. A naturalist from Vienna, who was here about ten years ago and spent six weeks in Luttach, was thoroughly enraptured by the richness of his discoveries. I was then at home on leave and frequently talked with him. His best and rarest caterpillars he found near the Chapel of St. Nikolas, I believe, upon the leaves of beeches and oaks."
Here was an important piece of news! The caterpillars of the Saturnia cæcigena, the rare Dalmatian butterfly which had lured me to Luttach, lived upon beech and oak leaves. I immediately determined to seek the neighbourhood of the Chapel of St. Nikolas this very day. To St. Nikolas my first excursion should be made.
I asked the Captain the way thither. "You cannot miss it," he answered; "there are two paths, each very easy to find. The first, which is perhaps fifteen minutes the nearer, is steep in its beginning, and even dangerous for unaccustomed mountain climbers. Part of it you can see from here. It begins there at that elder bush and leads directly up the rocks by steps partly natural and partly artificial, most of them, however, giving space only for one foot. A false step, a slip, might be disastrous, therefore I can hardly advise you to take this nearer path over the rocks. It is not long; in five minutes you would reach a very pleasant, gently ascending footpath, which in fifteen minutes more would lead you past the Lonely House, to reach in another quarter of an hour the Chapel of St. Nikolas in a direct line. The second path, just as easy to find, is very charming, beginning at the last house of Luttach and leading to the left from the road to Adelsberg, winding through meadows and through oak forests, and ascending gently, past the scattered houses of the village of Oberberg. After perhaps half an hour you reach a large crucifix at a fork of the pathway. The path to the left leads to the Lonely House, that to the right directly to the Chapel of St. Nikolas without going near the Lonely House; you cannot miss it. I advise you to take the longer path. The shorter is seldom used even by the inhabitants of Luttach, because it is certainly dangerous in descending. The District Judge alone, who is very fond of flowers, often climbs up the steep rocks, in search of rare, beautiful plants."
The advice was well meant, and I determined to follow it, although the mention of the rare and beautiful plants allured me. Still, I do not willingly expose myself to danger. We returned to the garden, where our coffee awaited us in a pretty arbour covered with wild grapevine.
I hurried my breakfast, for I was burning with impatience to find near St. Nikolas my entomological treasures. Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed before I started on my way thither, supplied with a cane and a large umbrella, my tin box upon my back, my pockets filled with glasses for beetles and boxes for caterpillars and butterflies.
The Captain had described the path to me so exactly that I really could not miss it. He had called it charming, but it was more than that. It was wondrously beautiful. It was a joy to ascend the mountain quietly, while fresh beauties of the landscape revealed themselves at every step. At my feet lay the pretty little town of Luttach, framed in emerald green meadows, bounded by the steep rocky wall against which it leaned. On the summit of this bare rock, majestically enthroned, were the remains of a ruined old castle, whose knightly possessor had in former times probably ruled over the rich valley of the Luttach.
Wherever the eye turned, whether downward to the houses and cottages in the valley, surrounded with blooming orchards, or to the distant view where the mighty mountain range bounded the horizon, its rocky peaks glowing in the sunlight--everywhere, it filled me with rapture.
And then, the fresh, delicious morning! It was a joy indeed to wander thus in the mountains.
The crucifix on the path was very quickly reached. I turned to the right, and soon the little Church of St. Nikolas lay before me.
Hitherto I had sturdily strode on without being detained by my desire to collect. But now, when the goal of my wanderings was reached, I began to search. Once more I turned on the steps of the church to feast upon the wonderful view above the tops of the oaks growing in the valley below, and then I began my work. I could have scarcely found a piece of ground more adapted for my purpose than this around St. Nikolas. The church lay in the midst of a forest of tall oaks; around them there was a rich undergrowth, and where their trunks were more rare, there spread a carpet of charming wildflowers, above which countless butterflies fluttered from one blossom to another. The wood above the chapel consisted partly of ancient trees and shrubbery, climbing the gentle slope of Nanos until it reached the bald rock which showed no trace of vegetation.
My first attempts at collection were rewarded by an astonishing result. I found upon the leaves of an oak a caterpillar entirely unknown to me. When I examined it more closely, it recalled to me the description which I had seen of the Saturnia cæcigena. My dearest wish was fulfilled.
Only a naturalist can form an idea of my joyful emotion, my delight, and the passion for collecting which this first specimen aroused in me. I forgot everything: the beauty of the landscape, to which I now paid no attention; the difficulty of finding my way in the forest without a guide, the danger of treading upon one of the poisonous reptiles native to the Karst range--in short, I wandered about animated only by the desire to procure more specimens of this rare and beautiful insect, and the more I found, the more the desire increased. I never noticed that hours had passed, that the refreshing morning had given place to an intensely hot noon, and that the exertion of climbing and searching had caused the perspiration to stream from my forehead. But at last my sixty years asserted their right. I began to be tired and to feel very thirsty, as the sound of church bells ascended from the valley. I looked at my watch; twelve o'clock! More than six hours had I passed in unbroken labour, and surely a man of sixty had the right to be a little tired and to think of home, especially since all my boxes were well filled.
I found myself in a dense forest at a considerable height above the little Church of St. Nikolas, but whether to the right or to the left of it I could not say, since I had walked along searching here and there, without a thought of the direction in which I was going. I might have informed myself as to this if I could have obtained a view of the valley, but the tall undergrowth made this impossible. There was nothing for it but to walk in the direction of Luttach, keeping to the right, down the mountain, and endeavouring to avoid any precipices, hoping thus to find the path in a roundabout way.
If it were not so oppressively hot! The oaks, covered with the early foliage of spring, hardly afforded any depth of shade. They could not protect me from the burning rays of the midday sun. The thirst which tormented me grew more intense with every minute, and almost intolerable. I longed for one swallow of water. Surely I could not be far from some cottage. Fortunately, in the morning the Captain had taught me the most important word in the Slavonic tongue, woda, "water." This word formed my entire Slavonic vocabulary, but it would suffice to inform any Slav of my need.
I strode on sturdily, keeping to the right down the mountain, and by good fortune encountered no precipice. After a little more than a quarter of an hour, I struck a footpath which wound about gently in the direction of Luttach. I pursued it, and I had proceeded but a few steps when in a little turn of the way I perceived a solitary pedestrian coming towards me. I immediately recognized the young man about whom there had been so lively a discussion in the Golden Grapevine, Franz Schorn. He was ascending the mountain path slowly, with eyes fixed gloomily on the ground. He did not see me until, when I was scarcely thirty steps from him, he suddenly raised his head as if listening. Then he started violently upon perceiving me. For a moment he seemed undetermined as to what he should do. He paused, regarded me darkly, then turned away, without a greeting, and in a moment more had vanished in the thick undergrowth of the forest.
A very strange fellow! He need not have considered himself so strictly bound by his promise not to press his friendship upon me. He need not have grudged me a kindly greeting and a word or two. I should have liked to ask him about the nearest cottage where I could perhaps get a drink of water, but there was no help for it; I could not run after him and must find my way for myself.
I pursued the footpath further. To my joy I soon found myself in the neighbourhood of a house, but as I approached it my joy turned to disappointment. All the windows--not only those of the ground floor, but those of the first story--were provided with strong iron bars, and I made sure that I had reached the Lonely House, whose possessor, old Pollenz, according to all that I had heard of him, could hardly be expected to show any civility to a hated German. Should I ask him for a drink of water? It would not be pleasant to be rudely refused so modest a request. If I had not been tortured with thirst, I would rather have continued upon my path to Luttach instead of asking any favour of the old usurer; but he could at most only return me a surly "No," so I determined to try it. On reaching the house, contrary to my expectation I found the front door wide open, although Mizka had told me that old Pollenz almost always kept it locked and would not open it until continued knocking had removed all suspicion of thieves.
Uncertain whether or not to enter, I stood before the open door; it looked into a spacious hall running through the entire house, ending in another door which probably led into the courtyard. That I confronted the Lonely House was made certain by the huge iron bolts with which the door towards the courtyard was secured. A steep staircase leading to the upper story led from one side of the hall. Opposite the staircase was a door; and two other doors, one to the right, one to the left of the entrance, led into the inner rooms of the house; they were all closed.
I entered and knocked modestly at the door on my left. No reply; no "Come in." I listened; there was not a sound to be heard; an uncanny stillness reigned throughout the house. I knocked again, more loudly, and then, after a pause, more loudly still for the third time. The sound of my knocking was so loud that it surely must have been heard within, but it met with no response. I waited in vain.
A strange and uncomfortable sensation overcame me. I dreaded the Lonely House, where everything seemed dead. What folly! An old man should have more sense. I was ashamed of this strange and disagreeable sensation and turned towards the door on the right of the entrance. Perhaps my knock here might have a better result. No longer as modestly as before, I knocked loudly, and the door, which happened to be only ajar, opened slowly of itself. I cast one look into a spacious room, and staggered back, overcome by intense horror.
There, almost in the centre of the apartment, a motionless figure lay upon the floor in a pool of blood, which had stained the white boards dark red. Such horror, such intense dread, seized me that my first thought was of flight as swift as my feet could carry me from this terrible sight; but the next moment I was ashamed of such cowardly fear. Perhaps the unfortunate man who lay there in his blood still lived. Perhaps I might help him. I overcame the paralyzing terror and entered the room.
All that I saw there only increased my horror. No mortal help could avail the unfortunate man whose stiffened corpse lay before me. He had either killed himself, or had been horribly murdered. His throat was cut, and from the gaping wound dark drops of blood were still trickling. The pale, bloodless, distorted countenance was that of a dead man.
Had there been a murder here! Had the old man's foreboding, always dwelling upon burglars and murderers, been fulfilled! Perhaps the murderer was still in the house. The horrible crime could not have been committed for long, for the blood had not yet congealed; some drops were still trickling from the wound.
Horror seized me afresh. I looked timidly about me. It seemed to me the murderer might be near. Hastily I drew from my breast pocket my loaded revolver; I was safe from any attack and could look about me with less agitation.
There was no doubt that a horrible crime had been committed here. There upon the floor, at some distance from the dead man, lay a bloody knife, near a large cabinet, the folding doors of which stood wide open. Several drawers had been drawn out and papers lay scattered upon the floor. The murderer had apparently been searching the cabinet for money or valuables, and had scattered about these papers.
Had he been startled by my knocking and escaped! If so, he must have passed through the door which led on the left to an adjoining room, for the windows here were barred.
I summoned all my courage to follow him, but there was no need, for the door leading outside was bolted and no one could have left the room by it. He must have escaped before I entered; he might be concealed somewhere near; but, again, he might have left the house, and, in his hasty flight, have forgotten to close the front door.
What should I do? Ought I not to search the place? Yet if he were not there, all search would be unavailing, and if I found him, it would be foolhardy to wander about these unfamiliar rooms merely to expose myself to an attack. The murderer might deal a blow from behind which would make me and my revolver useless.
It suddenly occurred to me that old Pollenz did not live alone in the house; that he had a daughter. Where was she! And where was the old servant of whom Mizka had told me? They had not heard my knocking, and yet it had been loud enough to resound through the entire building. Had they, in their endeavour to escape from the murderer, concealed themselves? Or--oh, horrible thought!--had they also fallen victims to the monster! On this point I must have certainty. If the assassin were still in the house, I could not leave the two women unprotected. My cowardly fear must be overcome; I must pursue the wretch. Humanity made my duty clear. With my revolver held ready and with a beating heart, I turned back to the bolted door, which I opened easily. I entered a spacious, dreary room. A bed against the wall, a table, a couple of wooden chairs, and two large closed wardrobes formed its entire furniture. Evidently it was the old man's sleeping room--a sordid apartment. Here I found nobody, and I continued my search. A second door in the room was unlocked. Through it I again entered the hall. Beneath the staircase was a door which evidently led to the cellar; it was closed by a massive bolt. Two other doors led from the hall to rooms on the left. I went to the first of these--the one at which I had knocked so loudly--opened it, and entered a large apartment much better furnished than the rooms which I had hitherto explored. It gave an impression of more comfort, and I was struck by its great cleanliness. By the window there was a work-table, upon which lay some sewing. A couple of flowers blooming in earthen pots stood on the window sill. A bed with snowy curtains stood against the wall opposite the window.
Undoubtedly this was the sitting-room and bedchamber of the fair Anna, the daughter of the murdered man. Without delay I continued my search. A door opposite the bed was unlocked. Through it I entered the kitchen. Here also I found no one, and I returned to the hall.
The four rooms of the ground floor had now been searched without result. With a calmer mind I mounted the steep staircase to the second story. Here I found rooms similar to those below. They were all unlocked and appeared to be used partly for old rubbish. In one of them there was a bed, probably that of the old servant.
I had found nothing. It seemed useless to ascend to the garret, so I went down to the room in which the murdered man lay, to consider what steps I should take next.
My fear lest the daughter and the maid had been the murderer's victims had proved groundless. Neither of them was in the house. The monster had probably profited by their absence to kill and rob the old man, whom he knew to be alone. Any longer stay in this terrible abode seemed useless. Of course I must inform the proper authorities of the murder, and it was my plain duty to do this as soon as possible. I ought not to linger longer in the Lonely House. Everything must be left lying as it was to await the legal investigation. I could do no good to the dead man by remaining. I ought to proceed to Luttach as quickly as my feet could carry me to inform the District Judge of my terrible discovery. On, then, to Luttach and the District Judge! Suddenly, by a strange chain of ideas, the memory awoke in me of Franz Schorn as he was coming from the Lonely House, with eyes gloomily downcast, in the forest path; of how he started when he saw me before he fled away through the undergrowth. Franz Schorn came from the house of his mortal enemy. I shuddered. Had I met the murderer fresh from the cruel deed? Had not the old man who lay there in his blood always feared him? Had not Mizka yesterday evening told me that Franz was a rough, morose fellow, who might be readily suspected of taking the life of his mortal enemy?
This was a dreadful suspicion, but not without foundation; and, at all events, it seemed to be my duty to inform the Judge as quickly as possible of my meeting with Franz Schorn. I hastily left the scene of the crime, not casting another glance behind me. I breathed more freely when I emerged from the gloomy hall into the brilliant sunshine. No longer under the spell of the ghastly spectacle, I could consider more calmly what was to be done. My first determination, however, remained unaltered. It was my plain duty to hasten to Luttach by the nearest way and there report to the District Judge. The nearest way, as the Captain had told me in the morning, was by the rocks. I could not miss it; I saw it clearly before me. A broad, well-worn path went directly from the Lonely House probably to the outlying cottages of the village of Oberberg. Another, narrow and overgrown, led in the direction of Luttach, and, at first, in a gentle incline down the mountain. This must be the footpath, then, which further on became the narrow way, over the rocks leading directly to the inn, which the Captain had described to me as perilous. Ought I to expose myself to the danger of a fall! The descent was more difficult than the ascent. The rocky way was at least the nearer by fifteen minutes. I had certainly climbed up and down more dangerous places among rocks in order to procure a rare caterpillar. I was now upon a far more important errand, and ought to reach Luttach quickly. It is foolish to expose oneself to unnecessary danger, but the man who shuns it when something important is at stake is a miserable coward. I delayed no longer. One glance over my shoulder I cast. The door of the Lonely House was wide open. Any passer-by might enter. Surely it was wrong to leave it open for more than an hour without any guard. Could I lock it! The key might still be in the lock. I approached it once more, I confess with great reluctance. The silence as of the grave which reigned within filled me with horror, but I overcame this weakness. My expectation was confirmed; the large house key was still there. I locked the door, and taking the key could now pursue my way, sure that for the next hour no passer-by could enter. I hurried down the narrow way leading to the rocky abyss; it was a charming path. The view of the valley was enchanting; I had no eyes for it; I saw nothing of the wealth of rare mountain plants blooming on either side, nothing of the gorgeous peonies which now and then projected their red blossoms almost from the very rock. My thoughts still clung to the Lonely House and the gloomy room where lay the dead man. I encountered not a single human being as I hurried along. At length the little town lay directly below me. I must descend over the dangerous rocks. I looked about me searchingly; it was not easy to find the narrow, untrodden footway, but it soon became plain to my practised eye. Without hesitation I strode down from stone to stone, partly leaping, knowing that a false step would cost me my life; but my training among the mountains made my footing sure, and after a few minutes I stood at the garden gate of the inn.
"Dinner has been waiting for you ever so long, Herr Professor," called Frau Franzka to me as I entered the kitchen, but hardly had I approached her before she clasped her hands above her head with "Holy Virgin, how you look! How pale! How distressed, and how dripping with perspiration! Why, large drops are falling from your hair; no one can climb about the mountains in the hottest part of the day. The District Judge----"
"Is the District Judge at home!" I broke in.
"Yes; he came home about a quarter of an hour ago. I did not see him, but I heard him going upstairs. He is in his room and is probably dressing. The Herr Professor ought also to go to his room and dress. You will take cold in your damp clothes."
I scarcely heard the last words. I hurried up the three flights of stairs and in the passage looked about me for the door marked No. 12--the District Judge's sitting room. I knocked at the door; no answer. I knocked more loudly; there came from within, as from an adjoining room, "Who's there?"
"Professor Dollnitz. I must see you with regard to a matter of great importance, Herr Foligno."
"I pray you just wait for a few minutes. I am dressing, but I'll be ready immediately."
I had to wait. Whilst I stood motionless before the door I suddenly became conscious of the intolerable thirst which, more than half an hour before, had driven me to the Lonely House. During my great excitement I had not been conscious of any physical need, but now in the first moments of quiet it attacked me with double violence. I was perfectly exhausted--almost fainting. Fortunately on the table in the passage there stood a carafe half filled with water. It must have been there for hours; the water was lukewarm, but I drank it eagerly and it gave me the refreshment of which I stood in need. I was as one new born.
I had to wait at least five minutes. The time seemed very long to me. At last the door opened and the District Judge appeared in a new and very elegant summer suit. His thin, sallow face had not attracted me on the previous evening, and now as he received me with a forced friendly smile I liked it still less.
"Forgive me for keeping you so long, Herr Professor," he said, "but I could not open the door before; I was, to speak frankly, entirely undressed when you knocked. I was obliged to change my clothes because, in your interest, I have had quite a fatiguing walk on the mountain. I am a little of a botanist--only a layman--but I am interested in botany, and I was desirous to surprise the learned Herr Professor with some rare plants whose habitat I knew. It cost me an effort to obtain them, and even a little danger; I had a fall which gave me a slight wound in my hand, but it is very insignificant, scarcely worth mentioning, since I have procured what I desired. Here they are." With his left hand (his right was wrapped in a white handkerchief) he took some orchids from the table before the sofa and handed them to me. They were of a beautiful and rare species, and at any other time would have given me the keenest delight, but at this moment I scarcely looked at them.
"I must reserve my thanks for a time," I said gravely, "the terrible intelligence which I bring to you, Herr Foligno, as the foremost official in the town, will admit of no delay. I come directly from the Lonely House--the scene of a horrible murder and robbery."
The District Judge recoiled as from a sudden blow. Pallor as of death overspread his sallow face. His mouth twitched; his eyes became glazed and fixed on me with a look wherein gleamed downright fear and absolute dismay.
"You came from the Lonely House--a murder and robbery! Incredible!" he stammered. Terror so mastered him that he could scarcely utter these few words.
"What I tell you is only too true," I replied, and then in the fewest words I related what I had seen and how I had closed the open door and hurried to Luttach in order to make him, as the chief authority of the place, acquainted with the fearful crime.
During my short narrative he was struggling to regain his composure and succeeded. He listened with his gaze fixed gloomily upon the floor. When I finished, he cast upon me a searching, piercing glance, and his voice trembled as he said, "Did you find no trace of the murderer! Did you see no one in the neighbourhood of the Lonely House!"
On my way down the mountain it had been clear to me that it was my duty to report my meeting with Franz Schorn, but when the District Judge put this question to me, I suddenly felt a decided reluctance to inform him of it. This man was Schorn's mortal enemy. Ought I to make him a sharer of my suspicion, which had been aroused by nothing but a chance encounter?
Still more searching and still more penetrating was the glance the District Judge bestowed upon me as I hesitated to reply.
"Did you see no one in the neighbourhood of the house, or upon the path towards it!" he asked once more.
As Judge he had a right to put the question and I ought to tell him the truth. As I reflected thus, I overcame my reluctance and replied.
"I did encounter a man not far from the Lonely House in the forest, but I cannot think myself justified in suspecting him of evil." I then described accurately my meeting with Franz Schorn.
He listened in silence, his eyes still fixed on the floor. When I finished, he said with emotion, extending his left hand to me: "I thank you, Herr Professor; your report may be of the first importance for the discovery of the murderer, but it may also subject an innocent man to a horrible suspicion. As long as there is no evidence against a man except that he was seen in the neighbourhood of the scene of a murder, nothing would justify his being suspected of what, even as a mere suspicion, might darken his whole future life. Therefore, let me request you to allow me to consider your account of your meeting with Herr Franz Schorn as a matter personal to myself and confidential, not official. I shall then not be forced to include it in a short account which I must write out of your information."
"You surprise me, Herr Foligno."
"I suppose so, and I owe you an explanation of my request. Herr Franz Schorn is my bitter enemy and I have never concealed my dislike of him. You were a witness yesterday evening of my quarrel with Captain Pollenz and my clerk. Precisely on this account I do not wish to include in my official paper a suspicion which I myself hold to be entirely groundless. I promise you that I will neglect nothing that will lead to the discovery of the murderer, that I will investigate every step which Herr Schorn has taken to-day, and will have him watched by a thoroughly competent detective. If he is guilty, I shall discover his guilt; but I do not believe he is so, and because I am his foe I will not attach any suspicion to him which, while the true murderer remains undiscovered, might ruin his life, merely because at the time of the murder he had been seen near the scene of the crime. Promise me, Herr Professor, that you will tell no one at present of your meeting with Franz Schorn. Should there be other and more important grounds for suspecting him, I shall request you to give me your account officially."
I pressed the Judge's hand cordially, and joyfully gave him the promise for which he asked. How unjustly I had judged this man! How I had misunderstood him! I was ashamed of the reluctance I had felt to tell him of my meeting with Franz Schorn.
"I must now make out a short official account of your information," the District Judge continued. "You can hardly believe how difficult this is for me. Your account has agitated me so profoundly that I can scarcely control myself. I was very familiar with old Pollenz. He had indeed many disagreeable qualities. Toward others he was often hard and unyielding, but I never had anything to complain of in his behaviour to me. He has often shown me favours. He was indeed almost a friend, and now I must prepare a paper which shall show him to be the victim of a horrible crime, which I must take the first steps to investigate. It must be done. It is my duty. In spite of the pain which my right hand gives me in writing, I will do it immediately."
He took a sheet of paper; pens and ink were at hand, and seated himself on the sofa behind the large table to write. His hand could not have been very painful, for it did not prevent his writing swiftly and clearly. Now and then, without interrupting his writing, he addressed some brief, leading question to me, and in scarcely ten minutes the paper was finished. He read it aloud to me. It was wonderfully concise and clear, without saying one word too much or too little, and I signed it without an alteration. After he had added his own signature, he said, "I must now beg you, Herr Professor, to accompany me to the Lonely House. I shall immediately summon my assistant, as well as the District Physician and the captain of gendarmes, to inspect the premises. You, too, Herr Professor, must be present. You must testify that nothing in the house has been altered in your absence. This is important for further investigation. Can I count upon you!"
"Most certainly."
"Then pray hold yourself in readiness. In half an hour, at the latest, I shall have notified the other gentlemen. The time of waiting, if I may advise you, should be employed by you in strengthening yourself with food and drink. Yon may not feel the need of refreshment at present, but we have some sad hours before us."
How kind and thoughtful! I certainly had cause to ask pardon in my heart of the District Judge for the prejudice he had created.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Herr Foligno called for me in the dining-room, where I was sitting with the Captain. It had taken him almost an hour to assemble those who were to inspect the scene of the murder in the Lonely House. I had informed the Captain, a near relative of the murdered man, of my terrible discovery, and he had been deeply moved. He said:
"I was never intimate with old Pollenz, although he was my first cousin. He was a hard usurer and a miser. He loved no one in the world save his daughter, but that his end has been so horrible is certainly very sad. Poor child, my dear little Anna! How will she bear this fearful shock! I saw her about twelve o'clock here in Luttach with her old maid, Johanna. She had been paying a visit to an aged aunt, and she is probably still there. I must see if it be so. I do not willingly visit the malicious old gossip, but if Anna is still with her, I must go to prepare the poor child for the sad news that awaits her."
He sent Mizka to old Frau Lancic's, and in a few minutes she returned to say that Fräulein Anna had been with the widow, but that she had left about a quarter of an hour before to make some purchases in the village and then to return home.
Upon hearing this, the Captain determined to accompany the officials to the Lonely House, for which he received permission from the District Judge.
Soon after four o'clock we began our walk; not by the steep rocky path, which was rather too difficult for the old District Physician, and might prove dangerous, but in accordance with the Judge's directions, by the longer way past the village of Oberberg.
We could make but slow progress, for the heat was still oppressive. The old physician gasped and panted as we ascended the mountain. The Judge with kindly consideration, begged him to walk slowly, although he himself was trembling with impatience to reach our goal.
We met various people on the way. They greeted us politely and looked after us with surprise. Intelligence of the murder had not yet reached the village of Oberberg, and people could not imagine what so many persons, accompanied by the captain of gendarmes, could have to do in the little village. I walked first with the Captain. The Judge and his clerk followed, and, naturally, very little was said as we pursued our way; all were oppressed by a sense of what lay before them.
We had turned into the path by the crucifix leading on the left to the Lonely House, and were but a short distance from the spot to which we were tending, when the Captain suddenly stood still and said in a faltering voice, "There comes my poor little Anna."
She came towards us hurriedly from the Lonely House. She was called pretty Anna in the country round, and indeed she deserved the name. I have scarcely ever in my long life seen so beautiful a girl. Even her expression of intense anxiety could not distort her charming face. When she recognized the Captain she flew towards him.
"Oh, uncle, my dear kind uncle, thank God you are here!" she cried. "I am dying with anxiety; my father will not open the door. For a quarter of an hour Johanna and I have been knocking in vain. Something must have happened to him, or he would hear us and open the door for us."
The Captain put his arm round the lovely child and pressed a kiss upon her white forehead. "My poor little girl!" he murmured. His voice failed him; he could say no more; his eyes filled with tears; he tried to control himself, but the compassion which he felt for the girl in his arms was too intense; it mastered him; he could hardly utter a word.
"Good heavens! What has happened?" cried Anna, extricating herself from the Captain's embrace and gazing at him, her large black eyes dilated with horror. "You call me your poor girl? There are tears in your eyes. For God's sake tell me what it means! Has anything happened to my father? Oh, answer me, uncle! I would rather hear the worst than suffer such suspense."
The Judge answered instead of the Captain, who could not control his voice. "Compose yourself, Fräulein Anna," he said with grave kindliness, "you need all your courage, all your self-control to endure the misfortune which God has sent to you. Unfortunately your anxiety is justified. Something has indeed happened to your father, my lifelong friend."
"He is dead!" the girl cried, with what was almost a shriek; overcome with grief, she tottered and would have fallen to the ground if the Captain had not thrown his arms about her. The Judge took her hand with deep sympathy, but she snatched it away and pushed him from her with a gesture expressive of the most profound aversion.
"Do not touch me; I hate, I despise you!" she cried, as she cast herself again into the Captain's arms. "Uncle, my dear kind uncle, you tell me what has happened. I can hear the worst from you, but not from that man."
The Judge, thus rudely repulsed, was deeply offended, but was too magnanimous--his pity for the unfortunate girl was too profound to admit of his expressing his resentment by a harsh word.
"You do me bitter wrong, Fräulein Anna," he said gently. "I sympathize sincerely with your pain, but I will not thrust my pity upon you. I pray you, Captain, to inform her as mercifully as possible of what has happened."
It was a hard task for the Captain, but it was his duty to fulfil it. He motioned to the Judge and to myself to withdraw for a few steps, and then took Anna's arm in his and, walking on before us, spoke to her in the most sympathetic and loving way. He told me afterwards that in all his life he had never had so hard a duty to perform. He searched in vain for kindly words to soften the horror; he feared that the delicate girl could hardly endure the frightful truth which he was forced to tell her; but to his great surprise Anna showed a remarkable degree of composure. She had not succumbed, he said, to pain and grief; she had become ghastly pale and her dark eyes had gleamed with a strange flickering fire, as, almost in a whisper, not to him, but to herself, she had murmured, "Foully murdered and robbed; murdered for the sake of his wretched money. He sacrificed his soul and now has given his life for money." She shed no tear; her grief was too great, too heart-breaking; but she trembled violently; her little hand shook as it rested on her uncle's arm, and as he put his arm round her and tenderly drew her to him, he could feel the violent beating of her heart. He told her everything that he had heard from me. When he had finished, she looked at him with flaming eyes.
"The vile murderer will be discovered," she said in a hoarse voice; "I trust in God's justice."
Her composure was really remarkable, and gave great cause for anxiety. I had lingered behind with the Judge and his clerk. We slowly followed the Captain and Anna about twenty steps in the rear.
"I certainly am most unfortunately situated," said the Judge, turning to me confidentially. "You heard the harsh words which the poor girl, half crazed with pain and horror, spoke to me. I know what those words mean. I am well aware that Fräulein Anna is prejudiced against me. She thinks that the hostility which her father showed to Herr Franz Schorn was partly my fault. That she does so is well known in Luttach, and I commit no indiscretion in telling you that there is an attachment between Fräulein Anna and Herr Schorn, of which old Pollenz disapproved. Fräulein Anna knows that Herr Schorn is my bitter enemy. She has sided with him against me, but that her prejudice is as intense as the words she has just spoken testify, I confess surprises me. Never before have I seen in her the least sign of dislike. Imagine my position. My official duty compels me to play the part of a disinterested investigator. I cannot spare her pain, but I shall have to subject her, with her old maid, to an examination. I must inquire how it happened that the Lonely House was left unlocked, perhaps by herself; every child in Luttach knows that old Pollenz always locked the front door securely. I would give much, very much, to spare the young lady this examination."
"If you would depute me to make it, Judge, such an act on your part would be entirely justified by the peculiar relations in which you stand to Fräulein Anna Pollenz." The Clerk uttered these words very quietly and in a businesslike tone, but the District Judge was not pleased. He cast a sinister glance at the Clerk and asked, "What do you mean by peculiar relations, sir?"
"Nothing but what you yourself indicated, and what, to use your own words, every child in Luttach is familiar with," was the quiet reply.
"You allude to the foolish gossip which makes me the young girl's rejected suitor? There is not one word of truth in it."
"Then old Pollenz lied, for he stated this, not as a secret, but quite openly, in Luttach. At all events, such a report does exist, and it will be confirmed unless you make use of your right to depute to me the examination of the young lady."
"No, that I will not do. My standard of official duty is too exalted to permit my neglecting it out of regard for my own feelings. I might perhaps take your advice if I were forced to play the part of examiner during the entire legal process, which must ensue upon this murder, but, fortunately, that is not so; only the preliminaries are our duty. Capital crimes," the Judge said turning to me, "do not come within the domain of the District Judge. They are the business of the tribunal of the country. Subsequent investigations will take place in Laibach. The preliminary examination alone is my task, which, whatever it may cost me, I will fulfil."
The Clerk made no reply; he simply bowed in sign that he had no further remarks to offer. We now reached the goal of our wanderings. The Lonely House stood before us. The Captain and Anna were standing near the locked door, and upon a wooden bench beside it sat an old woman, old Johanna, "The only servant of the house," the Judge whispered to me. The Captain had just told her of the murder of her master. Paralyzed with horror, incapable of speech, she was gazing up at him. When she tried to rise, she sank back helplessly. The Judge opened the front door with the key which I had given him.
Scarcely had he done so when Anna released herself from the Captain's arm and would have been the first to rush into the house, had not the Judge barred her way.
"Let me go," cried Anna. "I must go to my poor father. You dare not hold me back."
She would have pressed past him, but he prevented her from doing so, and with quiet resolve, in a perfectly judicial manner, said, "You must not see your father yet, Fräulein Anna. My official duty compels me to exclude you from the room in which the crime has been committed until it has been thoroughly searched. The traces which the murderer has perhaps left behind must not be interfered with. You must either stay here outside, or, if you wish, wait in your own room until it is permitted you to see your father. Captain Pollenz, I pray you to remain with your relative and to prevent Fräulein Anna from making an attempt to disturb the investigation by going into the murdered man's room. I cannot permit it."
Anna retired. As the Judge forbade our entrance into the house, her eyes seemed to flash with anger, but she controlled herself, only bestowing upon Herr Foligno a glance of dislike and antipathy.
"I obey," she said, recovering her composure wonderfully. "I will wait in my room with Johanna and my uncle. You shall have nothing to reproach me with. I pray you, sir," she said, turning to the Clerk; "I entreat you to search, investigate. The blood of my poor father cries to heaven. I must doubt its justice should you not succeed in discovering the ruthless murderer."
"Rest assured, Fräulein Anna, that I shall leave nothing undone----"
"I did not address you," Anna interrupted the Judge; "I entreat you, the assistant, to fulfil your duty; search for the murderer, whoever he may be, deliver him to the vengeance of the law. I trust you. You will not be influenced by fear or considerations of any kind. Do not answer me; I trust you; I know you will do everything to discover the criminal, even though you do not promise me. Come uncle, come Johanna, we will wait in my room."
While Anna was speaking, Herr Foligno's expression was, strangely enough, that of timidity and embarrassment; his lips moved; he seemed to wish to reply but could not. He retreated silently, as Anna, without looking in his direction, passed him. She entered the room at the left of the hall, her own apartment, and the Captain and the old maid, still half paralyzed with terror, followed her silently.
The Clerk also made no reply to Anna's strange words; he had been much astonished by them, as were all who heard them. With a keen searching look he regarded the Judge. Not until the door had closed behind Anna and the Captain did he say, whispering so softly that only I and the Judge could hear, "If you do not feel sufficiently well, Herr Foligno, to undertake the examination and will delegate me to conduct it, I am quite ready to do so."
"No, no," the Judge replied in as low a tone. Aloud he said, "Follow me, gentlemen. We must begin our melancholy task."