Among all the tragic and even terrible recollections which live in my memory, and of which my life has perhaps had more than its share, the most terrible is that of the first few days of my stay in Luttach. Even now they sometimes disturb my sleep at night. In dreams, I am once more in the spacious, dreary room of the Lonely House, with the stiffened corpse of the murdered man before me on the floor. The sunlight through the window falls upon his pale face with its distorted features. I see the terrible wound, and the hard, rasping voice of the District Physician strikes upon my ear as with professional calmness he examines the wound and with all the indifference with which he would discuss the commonest affair of business, explains that any suspicion of suicide is out of the question, coldly pointing out to us bystanders, grouped about the body, our faces pale and awed, the numerous wounds of which any one would have been mortal, and endeavouring with perfect calmness to prove that the murderer had first attacked his victim from behind, and had finally cut the throat to make sure that the deed was complete. I still hear in dreams the clear, incisive words showing that the murderer must certainly have been intimately acquainted with the murdered man's ways, and that in order to avoid any possibility of the old man's divulging his name with his dying breath, he had inflicted the last gaping wound.
Fearful as had been the impression made upon me in the morning by my discovery, it had not so curdled my blood with horror as did this examination of the body. The necessity for action, the danger which possibly threatened me from the murderer concealed in the house, had strengthened and quickened me in the morning; but now, when I was forced to stand by, an inactive spectator of this terrible scene, the whole horror of the affair for the first time presented itself to my consciousness.
The absence of all emotion, the inflexible indifference of the District Physician, who, as I learned from the Clerk, had been the friend and physician of old Pollenz, deepened the impression which rendered me almost incapable of connected thought.
I was a prey during the entire investigation to intense nervous agitation. I saw and heard everything that went on around me so clearly that the smallest detail remains stamped upon my memory, but I was incapable of connected thought, of drawing conclusions from what I heard and saw. This I was able to do only later when removed from the spell thus thrown around me. The investigation produced a most agitating effect upon the Clerk also, and in especial upon the Judge, but they could not leave, and were obliged to fulfil their official duty. The Clerk was very pale, but quiet and composed throughout; but the Judge was obliged to exert all his self-control to conquer his excitement, while the physician, still handling the body, demonstrated with great clearness, almost as if he had been a witness of it, the manner in which the murder had been committed.
But however intense his emotion, the Judge proved himself equal to the task his office imposed upon him. When the time came to search the room he displayed the greatest care and circumspection. The bloody knife lying upon the floor at some distance from the body was, of course, the first object of his notice.
"There lies the weapon with which the deed was committed," he cried. "Fortunately, the murderer has left it behind. It may afford a clue in his detection."
But this hope proved to be unfounded. The Clerk testified that the knife was the same which old Pollenz had always carried as a weapon of defense. Whereupon the Judge confirmed what he said; he had seen the knife in his friend's possession, and recognized it, but doubtless it was the weapon with which the crime was committed. "Most certainly," the Judge added, with keen observation, "the murderer must have snatched it from the old man as he tried to defend himself, and in so doing caused a struggle; the knife must have wounded the murderer in the hand, since its handle is stained with blood. We shall undoubtedly find further traces of his bleeding hand there in the cabinet which he broke open, and from which he scattered the papers lying about."
The Judged supposition proved correct. Inside the cabinet, as well as upon the open drawers, there were distinct traces of bloody fingers, and they were also found upon some of the papers strewn on the floor, which the murderer had taken from the cabinet but tossed aside as useless.
It was in this cabinet, as the Judge and the physician both testified, that old Pollenz had kept his money and papers of value. The murderer must have been familiar with this place of deposit, for he had opened only those drawers used for the purpose. The others, which contained receipted bills and worthless papers, had not been opened. The closest search failed to discover either money or papers of value, such as promissory notes or similar documents. All such had been abstracted. On the other hand, an old gold watch, a heavy gold snuffbox, both articles of value, remained untouched.
"The murderer is no common thief or burglar," the Judge said calmly. "Such an one would not have despised valuable articles like these."
"Certainly not," the physician added; "my firm belief is that he was an intimate acquaintance of old Pollenz. None other would have opened those drawers unless they knew they would reward a search."
"Unfortunately, this is the only hint we have to put us upon the trace of the criminal," the Judge said in a tone of disappointment. "Our melancholy investigation has had no result of value."
This was indeed so. The murderer had left the Lonely House without leaving any traces except those of his bleeding hand. In spite of the most careful search, nothing further was discovered. The Judge set down in his deposition all that had been done. It was as clear and well composed as that which he had written previously in his room. I confirmed his report that I had found the Lonely House and in especial the room in which the crime had been committed in the same condition in which I had left it. It now remained for the Judge to fulfil the hardest part of his task. He was obliged to examine the daughter and the old servant of the murdered man. He evidently feared to meet with difficulties caused by the aversion to him which the fair Anna had so openly expressed, but it was necessary to make this examination in order to find some explanation of the surprising fact that the Lonely House, usually so carefully locked, should have been left wide open at midday.
The Judge's fear, however, proved to be groundless. He found Anna in her room, wonderfully quiet and composed. She immediately declared herself ready to be examined, and only asked that the Captain, the Clerk and myself should be the sole witnesses present. The Judge willingly granted this request, and every difficulty was removed. She testified that she had that day had her breakfast as usual with her father at eleven o'clock, and, close upon twelve, had left the Lonely House with Johanna to make some purchases in Luttach, and at the same time to visit her old aunt. Her father, as usual, accompanied her to the front door and locked and bolted it behind her. It was his custom when left alone in the house to bolt himself into his sitting-room. Whenever any one knocked at the front door, he always first made sure of his visitor by looking out of the window, and, when he was alone, never allowed a stranger to cross his threshold. Even acquaintances in whom perchance he did not repose entire confidence were always dismissed by him from the window. He did not even open the door for them. As to her father's property in papers of value and money, Anna knew nothing. Her father had never talked with her about his pecuniary circumstances. She could not possibly tell of how much he had been robbed.
With perfect composure Anna gave her testimony, but, when in conclusion the Judge asked her if she had met any one upon her way to Luttach, the colour suddenly mounted to her cheek and as quickly left it, and her "no" was by no means so clear and decided as had been her earlier report. She blushed still more deeply when the Judge asked if her father had any special mistrust of any of his acquaintances, and assured her that what she should say would be entirely confidential, even if there should be nothing in her reply to arouse suspicion.
"I will not answer this question," Anna replied, after she had stood for a moment with downcast eyes. "No one in the world has a right to ask such a question, and you least of all."
To this declaration she adhered, and the Judge was obliged to finish his deposition without learning anything further from her. The examination of old Johanna also produced no further result.
Thus the examination ended, and the Judge could no longer refuse to allow the daughter to see her father's body. Conducted by Captain Pollenz, Anna entered the old man's sleeping-room, where the captain of gendarmes and the physician had laid the murdered man upon the bed. The Captain afterwards told me that the composure shown by the young girl at the terrible sight had filled him with genuine admiration. She kneeled beside the bed on which the corpse had been laid. She took the cold, stiff hand in hers and kissed it, while tears rolled over her cheeks. The Captain would have said a few words to comfort her, but she interrupted him.
"Let my grief have way, uncle," she said sadly; "you do not know what I have lost in him. He was harsh to every one else, but he loved me with all his heart, me only in the world, and I am perhaps the cause of his death. This it is that fills me almost with despair. The thought that I may be guilty of his death is almost unendurable."
"How can you think such a thing, my child?" the Captain asked, much startled.
"I cannot explain it to you, uncle," Anna continued, kissing the dead man's hand again and again. "It is perhaps only a foolish thought, but it arose in my mind when I heard how cruelly my father had been murdered, and I cannot banish it. I dare not share it with any one, not even with you, my dear, kind uncle. I commit an injustice perhaps in not being able to banish it. I know nothing, nothing which gives me the right to entertain it. It is only a vague, fearful foreboding, oppressing my heart all the more because I must bear it all alone and can share it with no one in the world."
The girl refused all explanation of her mysterious words. For a long while she silently knelt by the bed, holding the dead man's hand in hers, but at last she rose and followed the Captain to her room, in which we--that is, the Clerk, the Judge, the physician, and myself--were awaiting her. During Anna's absence with the Captain we had been discussing the future of the young girl. It was impossible that she should remain with the old servant and the murdered man alone in the Lonely House. We had therefore determined to take her back with us to Luttach. The physician had kindly offered to give her an asylum as a guest in his house. His wife, he told us, was very fond of the fair Anna; she would rejoice most heartily to show any loving service to the unfortunate child. Anna could not possibly live with her old, peevish Aunt Laucic, who was even a greater miser than old Pollenz. She would find none of the sympathy and love of which she stood in such need with that old dragon.
The kindness and friendliness for the unfortunate young girl which prompted the words of the physician reconciled me to him. His businesslike indifference during the investigation had made me almost hate him, but now I acknowledged to myself that I had been unjust and that he was no cold and heartless man, but, on the contrary, a very kindly, benevolent old doctor.
We had arranged everything as we thought for the best, but when Anna returned to us we found that our wise arrangements were entirely useless. She declared, with a decision remarkable in so young a girl, that she would not leave her father, but would stay beside him.
In vain did we all entreat her, the Judge alone prudently refraining from doing so. We used our most eloquent powers of persuasion.
In vain did the Captain add his voice, and in vain did the physician explain to her what an insufficient protection old Johanna would be in the Lonely House during the next night.
"If Johanna is afraid, she can go with you to Luttach," she said. "I am not afraid to remain alone with my beloved dead."
As she was immovable, we were obliged to comply. We could not force her to go with us to Luttach, but we did not leave her alone in the Lonely House, for the Captain declared he would not leave her; if she stayed, he would stay also; they could make up a bed quite comfortable enough for an old soldier.
Anna was reluctant to accept this offer, but the Captain refused to withdraw it. He said he could be quite as obstinate as Anna herself, and thus he remained in the Lonely House, while we returned to Luttach.
Both kitchen and dining-room in the "Golden Vine" were crowded with guests--a very unusual thing of a week-day. The report of the murder in the Lonely House had spread quickly, not only in the little town, but also in the surrounding villages, and, naturally, all were eager to hear further particulars, and could find no better place for gratifying this desire than in the inn, the home of the Judge, who was sure to be there in the evening.
In the spacious kitchen, which was the gathering place of guests of the lower classes, peasants and small tradesmen, there was quite a crowd. Some were even obliged to drink their wine standing; all the benches and chairs were occupied. Here not a German word was to be heard; the talk was entirely in Slavonic; even around the hearth where Frau Franzka received her intimate friends, all spoke in that tongue.
Nearly twenty men, principally petty tradesmen from Luttach, were sitting and standing around the huge hearth listening respectfully to Frau Franzka's words, who, as she cooked and broiled, was obliged to give all the details of the terrible deed which the "German fly-catcher"--such was the name that had already been bestowed upon me in Luttach--had discovered. When I passed through the kitchen to go to the dining-room, I was most politely and kindly greeted by all present, while they looked at me with undisguised curiosity.
In the dining-room there was a far larger assembly than usual. All the tables were occupied, but principally the great round one at which the Burgomaster presided. All the gentlemen to whom I had been presented on the previous evening were present, with the exception of the Captain. The District Physician, two gentlemen (strangers to me), and, oddly enough, Franz Schorn, were also there; the last sat next the Judge's assistant.
I had evidently been expected. A chair beside the District Judge had been reserved for me, and when I appeared--quite too late to suit the impatience of those present--I was cordially received. Even Franz Schorn rose from his seat, and when the other gentlemen offered me their hands, he held out his--not the right hand, but the left, like the Judge, who had protected his wounded hand with a black glove. I remarked that Franz Schorn did not use his right hand, but kept it concealed in the breast of his coat, which was closely buttoned.
The conversation was hardly interrupted by my arrival. Naturally it had been concerning the murder in the Lonely House, and it so continued after I had taken my place at the table. It was to me that all inquisitive inquiries were now addressed--to me instead of to the Judge or his assistant or to the physician. I was obliged to relate all that I had seen. I was questioned about the smallest details; the most insignificant interested every one.
The Judge, the assistant and Franz Schorn alone were silent. I could inform the two first of nothing new; there was no need for them to question me, and Franz Schorn probably did not wish to thrust himself forward with inquiries.
It was evident, however, that he listened with intense interest to everything that I related. As I spoke I narrowly observed the behaviour of the Judge and of Franz Schorn, the two rivals. Herr Foligno appeared scarcely to hear what I was saying. His eyes were fixed gloomily on his wineglass, and he seemed to take no part in what was going on, but from time to time as he looked up I could see that he heard every word that I said. Franz Schorn kept his eyes riveted upon me as I spoke. The description of my first discovery of the murdered man evidently horrified him; he was more agitated by it than any of my other hearers.
After I had ended my narrative, and it had been completed by the physician, the question of course was discussed as to who the murderer could be, whence he had come, how he had entered the locked house, whither he had fled, and what had been the amount of his robbery. In this discussion, however, the Judge and his assistant and Franz Schorn took no part, although they listened with close attention.
The physician defended with much acuteness his own theory that only an intimate acquaintance of old Pollenz could have committed the crime; on the other hand, many present maintained that the murderer must be some Italian from Trieste, for neither in Luttach nor in the surrounding country was there a man capable of such a deed.
During this discussion, to which Franz Schorn listened very attentively, the physician accidentally pushed aside the left arm of his neighbour--Franz Schorn--who dropped the cigar which he was holding in his hand and stooped to pick it up. As he did so, he instinctively drew from his bosom his right hand, which had hitherto been concealed by his coat. It was bound about with a white bandage, upon which were several spots of blood. He thrust it quickly into his breast again, but not before the physician had noticed the spots on the white linen.
"Ah, Franz! What is the matter with your hand?" he asked kindly.
"Nothing," Franz replied curtly; "a slight cut."
"Slight! That can hardly be; if you have a bandaged hand and don't use it, it must be a tolerably deep cut. Of course, you have done nothing, as usual, but wrap a rag about it. You young people are incorrigible. You never reflect that the neglect of such cuts, which you consider insignificant, may cost you the hand itself. Take off the bandage; I want to see what it is."
"It is nothing; a trifle, not worth mentioning."
"All the more readily should you show it to me. You owe obedience to an old friend of your father's, you obstinate fellow; so off with your bandage; I wish to see the wound."
"Certainly, if you insist," Franz replied, holding out his hand and unwinding the bandage. It did not come off easily, but adhered to the wound and a few drops of blood followed its removal.
"A couple of good cuts," said the physician, examining the hand; "not dangerous; they will heal without any particular care if you spare your hand a little for a couple of days; but how did you get such strange cuts! Four fingers implicated, and another gash in the palm. It looks as if you had done it with a knife."
"And so I did," Franz replied. "I was using a large knife in the vineyard to-day and laid it down upon a high wall; it fell and would have pierced my foot, if instead of shifting it, I had not foolishly grasped at the falling knife and seized the sharp blade instead of the handle. That is the whole story. Such slight cuts are not worth mentioning." He wrapped the bandage around his hand again and concealed it as before in the breast of his coat.
"Such slight cuts are not worth mentioning," the young man had said, and it was true; they were insignificant. Nevertheless they aroused in me a chain of thought which filled me with dread. Involuntarily I thought of the bloody, dagger-like knife which I had seen in the Lonely House. If the murderer in his contest with the old man had endeavoured to take the knife from him and had accidentally seized it by the blade, his hand would have been wounded precisely as was that of Franz Schorn. Schorn had hitherto kept his right hand concealed. Why so? Did he wish to conceal the wound? An involuntary motion, an accident, had compelled him to show the bandaged hand, and it was with great reluctance that he had acceded to the physician's request.
I looked at the District Judge. The same suspicion which had made me shudder had been aroused also in him. I could read it in the lowering, searching glance which he gave to the hand as Franz was wrapping it in the bandage again. When he looked up afterwards and his gaze met mine, his eyes were more eloquent than his tongue could have been. He slowly raised his hand in its black glove as if in token of our understanding each other. Strangely enough, his motion and his look had the effect of instantly banishing the dark suspicion that had been awakened within me. I had no right to entertain it. Had not the Judge himself also accidentally wounded his right hand this very day? Might I not have seen him also near the Lonely House, since he had been climbing among the rocks in search of flowers? No, it would be rank folly to found a suspicion with regard to Franz Schorn upon such accidental circumstances. That the young man seemed even more gloomy and preoccupied than on the previous evening, and that he scarcely uttered a word, furnished no grounds for any suspicion with regard to him. Must he not be deeply agitated by the terrible death of an old man with whom he stood in such close, although hostile, relations? I blamed myself for being so carried away by my indignation as to be ready to find in insignificant trifles an undue importance. Besides, with the exception of the Judge, whose duty it was to investigate all grounds of suspicion, no other member of the company had thought of connecting Franz Schorn's wounded hand with the murder. They all continued to converse freely; even the physician, so acute in piecing out evidence, who might have entertained some vague suspicion, had none at all; he had thought no possible evil of Franz, and continued to address him now from time to time as kindly and unreservedly as before. Still, this evening I was very uncomfortable among them all. Their continued talk, always of the same details, always of the horrible crime, increased my nervous agitation to an intolerable degree. It was impossible to change the subject of the conversation; it always reverted to the murder in the Lonely House.
This perpetual return to the same horrible subject stretched me upon the rack; I could no longer endure it. As soon as I had finished my trout and my wine, I rose to withdraw to my room. The Judge followed my example, and rose also. After emptying his tall glass at a draught, he said he was tired and unhinged and needed to go to bed early after so terrible a day. His clerk and the physician, with several other gentlemen, courteously entreated me to stay at least for half an hour longer, it was so early. Without positive discourtesy I could not refuse their request, and ordered myself another glass of wine. The Judge followed my example, although no one had requested him to remain. In the short time that I stayed, barely half an hour, he drank two full glasses of wine, the last at a draught just as I arose and declined to remain longer.
Together we ascended the stairs. Mizka preceded us with a candle. When we reached the landing in the first story, the Judge offered me his left hand in farewell.
"Good-night, Herr Professor," he said aloud, adding in a whisper, "I fear I shall be obliged to ask you to-morrow to give me officially an account of your meeting with Herr Franz Schorn in the neighbourhood of the Lonely House." He looked around at Mizka, who was opening the door of my room, and as she entered it he continued, "A ground of suspicion such as the wound in his right hand compels me to abandon all personal considerations."
Greatly startled, I replied, "Mere chance, Herr Foligno; you, too, have wounded your right hand to-day."
My innocent words made him start as if I had struck him a blow in the face. I could not see his features, it was too dark on the landing; a weak ray of light coming from the open door of my room was the only illumination; but the quiver in his voice as he answered me after a pause of a second, betrayed the disastrous effect of my words.
"You are perfectly right, Herr Professor; it may be 'mere chance.' I shall not proceed against Herr Schorn. I will even try to combat my suspicion of evil in him, my enemy, but it is my duty to search for further grounds of suspicion against him. That must be done in spite of my hostile feeling towards him. Good-night, Herr Professor."
He pressed my hand once more, and we parted.
Mizka was already busy in my room putting everything in order for the night. She was obliged to do this as quickly as possible, for the number of guests below in the dining-room and in the kitchen depended upon her services; but she could not forego a little gossip. She told me that before I had entered the dining-room this evening there had been quite a quarrel between the Judge and his assistant. They had been seated at the round table when Franz Schorn entered the room and looked around for a place. All the tables were full, and the Clerk had invited Schorn to sit beside him at the round table. This made the Judge violently angry, but the Clerk declared that the Judge had no more authority than any other guest in the dining-room of the inn. Franz Schorn would have retired, but the Clerk detained him, and the physician, who had been an old friend of Franz's dead father, had declared that he himself would stay only on condition of Franz's remaining, and would never again take his place at the round table if Herr Foligno denied a seat there to Franz. The Burgomaster, too, and the other gentlemen, who were not always friendly to Franz, now took his part, so that the Judge was obliged to yield, and Franz, induced by their persuasions, took his seat; but neither the Judge nor Franz after the quarrel had exchanged a word.
What strange occurrences were these in this little country town! Even here, the few cultivated people, so circumscribed in their social relations, were divided by hatred and prejudice. I undressed myself and, with a memory of the gymnastic feats of my boyhood, clambered into my lofty bed. I was sadly in need of repose. The agitations of the day had been too much for my old body. They had exhausted my strength, and yet excitement of mind conquered bodily weariness. I could not sleep. I tried in vain to banish the memory of the dreadful scenes through which I had passed. I tried to think of it all with indifference; but what I had seen in the Lonely House scared away sleep, of which I had such sore need. Hours and hours passed. The time seemed eternal before at last I closed my weary eyes.
And the Judge had the same experience; he could not sleep that night. As long as I lay awake in bed I heard the sound of his footsteps above me, as he paced his room to and fro restlessly. Surely the same memories were agitating him which denied me the blessing of slumber. The investigation at the Lonely House had not been the mere fulfilment of a duty for him, any more than it had been for the physician. The horror of it all had impressed him as profoundly as it had myself. It did not lessen my opinion of him that he should thus have preserved in the midst of his official duties a warm, sensitive heart.
Again I awoke early in the morning. I did not need much sleep for physical refreshment, and although it had lasted but a few hours, I felt quite fresh and well. The beautiful morning should serve me for another expedition, and I wished to start as early as possible; in Southern Ukraine only the early morning hours are suitable for mountain walks and climbing. As long as the dew still glitters on the grass, wandering in the Ukraine mountains is indescribably delightful, but when the glowing sun has absorbed the last dewdrops, when its direct rays are reflected from gray rocks, when no breath of air fans the climber's cheek, mountain-climbing becomes altogether too hard a task for an old man. I finished my breakfast before six o'clock and was all ready for a start. Whither should I turn my steps! The forest above the Chapel of St. Nikolas allured me. I had found such entomological treasures there on the previous day that I surely could do nothing better than go thither again. I could not collect too many specimens of the grub of the Saturnia cæcigena, for, unfortunately, I could not be sure that each larva would produce a butterfly. To St. Nikolas, then, I took my way and by the narrow path. I had succeeded in descending it without accident the day before, and it was surely not too dangerous for me to ascend it. I set out. The path certainly was better than its reputation. It had no danger for a climber not subject to dizziness, and was quite firm beneath the foot. I had often ascended far more steep and dangerous pathways in my search for some rare plant.
The easy footpath leading to the Lonely House was soon reached, and I strode forward sturdily. On the previous day I had hurried along it, only desirous to reach Luttach as quickly as possible. To-day I feasted my eyes with the view of the charming country upon which I looked down, while at the same time I scrutinized with the keenness of a collector the gentle ascent on my left where I might perhaps discover some treasure growing among the rocks. Not far from the Lonely House I perceived to my great joy in a spot which could be reached without difficulty many beautiful specimens of the very orchid Ophrys Bertolini which the Judge had brought to me yesterday. This was an unexpected delight. In yesterday's excitement I had neglected to put the charming flowers in water, and when I returned from the investigation they were so withered that they were not worth preserving for my herbarium. Now I could gather many glorious specimens without any trouble.
I left the path and easily climbed the rocks soon reaching the spot where the orchids grew. But no sooner had I arrived there than to my astonishment several trampled flowers showed me that another had been before me, who was also a collector, and had plucked many blossoms of the rare Ophrys.
One spot showed me that whoever he was, he had been no true botanist; a true botanist would have taken the plants, roots and all, not the blossoms only. He who collected the flowers here must have been in a hurry; he had dropped several blossoms which lay wilted on the ground and had evidently been plucked yesterday.
Was this the spot where the Judge had collected the beautiful Ophrys for me! The specimens which he had brought me were without roots. I now recalled this circumstance, which had escaped my notice on the previous day; but he had said that it had cost him some trouble and even danger to reach the rare plants with the habitat of which he was acquainted. He had fallen in doing so and had lacerated his hand. It was impossible that he could have done so here; for here was no possible danger; no flowers on the mountains could be plucked with more facility than these.
And yet here the Judge had been. He had certainly gathered the Ophrys for me here. I found one unmistakable proof of his presence. On the ground lay a red and yellow silk pocket handkerchief, just exactly such a handkerchief as the Judge had carried the day before yesterday. I remembered it perfectly. Of course he had lost it here while plucking the flowers.
Involuntarily I smiled at the good man's boast; in order to give his gift a higher value, he had talked of danger in procuring it. I would tease him a little for his bragging. When I returned his handkerchief I would expatiate on the terrible danger of the place where the Ophrys Bertolini was to be found.
Still the plucking of the flowers had not been entirely without danger for him. I could not comprehend how he could have fallen on this smooth spot and wounded his hand, but that he had done so the handkerchief testified. On the yellow silk there were several brown stains, which I recognized as blood. The hackneyed old saying, "No fall so slight but may kill you quite," occurred to me. With a smile I put the handkerchief in my pocket to return it to its owner when I got back to the inn. I dug up a number of the beautiful Ophrys Bertolini growing here by hundreds, and then, walking on quickly, in scarcely five minutes I reached the Lonely House. I was going to pass it, but from a window of the upper story the Captain called, begging me to wait a moment and he would join me.
He came and greeted me with great cordiality. He had passed a melancholy night. Old Johanna had been half crazy with fear and was absolutely useless. He had tried to persuade her to occupy one of the two rooms on the right of the hall, but she had fled to her bed in the upper story and locked herself in. Therefore the Captain had earnestly entreated Anna to leave the Lonely House, but all his words had been in vain. Anna displayed wonderful composure in her profound grief, but at the same time a firmness of purpose bordering on obstinacy. She had declared that she would not leave the Lonely House as long as it sheltered her father's body. She could not leave it all alone there. She would stay with him until he was buried, and she watched beside the corpse for half the night. Morning had dawned before she betook herself to rest.
"Anna is a strange child," said the Captain. "There are odd contradictions in her character. She is gentle and yielding and at the same time absolutely firm, open to no persuasion; sometimes frank and confiding; at others reserved and almost suspicious even of me, although she has repeatedly assured me that she trusts no human being as she does me and my brother, the Burgomaster. With entire frankness she has given me a detailed account of all the misery and wretchedness which has existed here in the house ever since the day when Franz Schorn asked her in marriage of her father. Towards herself the old man was kind and caressing, although she declared to him that she never would forsake Franz Schorn, that she never would marry the Judge; but to every other human being, and particularly to Franz, he displayed positive hatred, regarding all with profound suspicion, even old Johanna. He was completely dominated by the fear that some day he should be attacked and murdered. Wherefore he always bolted himself into his room, and if he admitted any one was armed with a dagger-like knife. He kept this terrible knife in his hand even whilst old Johanna arranged his room; even from her he feared some secret attack. No entreaty of Anna's could induce him to moderate his savage hatred of Franz. She, on her part, declared that she never would forsake Franz as long as she lived. This had led to continual strife between herself and her father, for she had told him frankly that he must shut her up in a close prison if he wished to prevent her from seeing Franz, and she had seen him almost daily; when her father locked himself up in his room after the midday meal to sleep for an hour, she always left the house to see Franz, who awaited her beneath the large oak not far away. Her father knew this, but had done nothing to prevent it, after she had declared to him that she should continue to do it, and if he locked her in the house, she would try to break the locks. The strange girl told me all this with reckless frankness, while at the same time she refused me any explanation, although I begged her to give it, of what she meant yesterday when she declared that she perhaps was guilty of her father's death. My little Anna is a riddle to me," the Captain thus closed his long account, "but I love her none the less and I shall stay here to protect her. I will not leave her all by herself in the Lonely House. Now you can do me a favour, Herr Professor. When you return at midday from your excursion to St. Nikolas, stop here before the Lonely House once more, and I will give you some directions to take to Luttach for my brother, the Burgomaster. He must provide a suitable home for Anna in Luttach if she refuses to accept the doctor's invitation after her father's funeral, for which he must also give directions. I will put all this down in a letter, which you will have the kindness to give to my brother yourself."
I at once promised what he asked, and we parted the best of friends. The Captain returned to the Lonely House to write his letter, which, as he said, was quite a task for an old soldier unaccustomed for many years to hold a pen.
I continued my walk and soon reached the little Church of St. Nikolas. Again I fed my eyes on the charming prospect and then proceeded to collect. I scrambled about in the forest, hither and thither, for some hours; then up on the bald rocky side of Nanos, and not until my bottles and boxes were so full that I could accommodate no more treasures, and the heat had become oppressive, did I take my way back towards noon by the same path which I had followed yesterday. In a little while I reached the footpath leading to the Lonely House, and on the very same spot where I had yesterday encountered Franz Schorn I found him again to-day, but he did not avoid me; he awaited me. He was not alone; beside him, with his arm around her waist, stood pretty Anna. They were a charming pair. I delighted in the sight of the two beautiful young people. Franz was certainly a handsome fellow. Now, as he looked down on his lovely companion, with eyes full of the tenderest affection, the beauty of his features, which a gloomy expression had hitherto concealed, was plainly visible.
When the young man observed me, a shadow crossed his brow. Without releasing his companion, with his left hand he took off his straw hat in greeting. Then Anna, too, saw me, and with a blush beckoned to me kindly. She made no attempt to release herself from the embracing arm of the young man.
"We were awaiting you here, Herr Professor," said Franz, as I reached them. "Captain Pollenz informed my betrothed that you, in coming from St. Nikolas, had promised to stop, towards noon, at the Lonely House; therefore we came to meet you to make a request of you."
"Which I shall certainly comply with if possible," I replied, regarding the young girl with genuine delight. She blushed, but looked up with kindling eyes at Franz as he uttered the word "betrothed."
"It is a request that may seem strange to you, Herr Professor," Franz continued, "but, nevertheless, I will make it; I am convinced that you would not wish to cause annoyance either to myself or to my dear betrothed."
"Most certainly not. Pray tell me quite frankly what you wish."
"It is not much. I would only ask you not to mention to any one our meeting yesterday here in this place."
The request in itself seemed trivial enough, but the look which accompanied it was far from meaningless. It betokened intense anxiety as to whether or not I would accede to what he asked.
In truth, the young man's request was a strange one. Involuntarily my eyes turned to his wounded right hand. All diverse thoughts ran riot in my brain. I remembered the large double-edged knife with its bloody handle lying on the floor of the room in the Lonely House, and then came the memory of the cut on a brown hand and the doctor's voice saying, "That looks as if you had grasped a knife by the blade." Again I saw Franz turn from me to hurry through the undergrowth, and again I saw him with eyes gloomily cast down as he listened to the physician's words. I recalled his bitter hostility to old Pollenz, and the old man's words, "That fellow will kill me one of these days." Hitherto I had entertained no downright suspicion of the young fellow, but it suddenly stirred within me.
"Why do you wish me not to mention our meeting?" I asked in reply.
"Because I begged Franz to ask you this," Anna replied for the young man, whose features as I spoke resumed their wonted gloomy expression. "Franz told me that yesterday he turned away from you because he wished to avoid any meeting with you. He feared it might cause you annoyance, if you had happened to be seen by any chance passer-by walking with him. He had been waiting for me a long time in vain beneath the old oak where we are used to meet every day at noon. I could not come because my father had sent me down to Luttach. Franz was in a very bad humour when he met you, and so, to avoid greeting you, he turned away into the forest."
Anna's words had a peculiar effect upon me. They strengthened my suspicions. If he were not guilty, would Franz have thought it necessary to have the young girl explain to me why he was in the neighbourhood of the Lonely House at noon, and why he had turned away from me with such sullen looks?
"You have not yet told me why I should not mention my meeting with Herr Schorn," I replied.
"I will explain that to you myself," Franz said hurriedly, "my betrothed thinks that if Foligno should learn that I was seen yesterday here in the neighbourhood of the Lonely House, the malice and hatred with which he regards me would find expression in vile suspicion of me."
"It would certainly be so. I entreat you, dear Herr Professor, do not tell a human being that you met Franz yesterday."
As she spoke the young girl looked up at me with such entreaty in her beautiful eyes that my heart was softened. I was in an awkward position. Ought I to tell her that I could not comply with her request, because I had already informed the Judge of my meeting Franz? This I could not do. I could not warn Franz without perhaps injuring the investigation; but, on the other hand, I certainly could not make a promise which it was already impossible to keep.
"I can promise nothing," I replied guardedly; "in an official examination one is bound to conceal nothing."
"Oh, Herr Professor, I beg, I entreat you----"
Franz interrupted her, and, casting at me a look which was almost menacing, exclaimed, "Do not say another word, Anna; the Herr Professor is right; it was folly, yes, wrong, for me to yield to your desire and make this request of the Herr Professor, who ought not to comply with it. If that scoundrel, Foligno, suspects me, I know how to meet his suspicion. Come, Anna, we ought not to detain the gentleman any longer."
He lifted his hat by way of farewell, and walked towards the forest with the young girl. My mind was filled with contradictory thoughts. Can that proud, self-assertive young man be a miserable criminal! I would so gladly have banished all suspicion of him, but--how terrible it was that so lovely and charming a girl had perhaps bestowed the wealth of her affection upon her father's murderer!
I walked slowly towards the Lonely House, where the Captain, sitting before the door, was awaiting me. He handed me the letter for his brother, gave me various verbal commissions, and I left with a promise to visit him shortly in the Lonely House.
"Shall I bring the Herr Professor's lunch into the garden?" Mizka asked me as I entered the kitchen of the Golden Vine on my return from my excursion. "The Judge has been lunching in the garden, and is sitting with his coffee beneath the great linden."
The Ophrys Bertolini occurred to me. I smiled at the remembrance of the Judge's boast and was pleased at the idea of teasing him. Of course I ordered my lunch in the garden and betook myself thither.
The Judge was sipping his coffee and smoking his long cigar at the round table beneath the spreading linden. He seemed sunk in a profound reverie, leaning his head upon his hand and with downcast eyes. I was struck with his pallor and with the sallowness and the drawn look of his features. At my first words he started violently, and for a moment gazed at me with terror, almost as if awaking from an oppressive dream, but in an instant he recovered his self-control, and greeted me with a smile.
"I think I was dozing," he said; "the terrible heat makes me sleepy."
Why should he have told such an untruth? He had not been dozing; just before he started he had raised his hand to his cigar and had taken a long whiff.
"I admire you, Herr Professor," he said, "for being able to climb about in such heat. I suffer from it even here in the shade of the linden. I trust you were richly rewarded for your trouble."
"I was indeed," I replied smiling. "I have had great luck. I have been so fortunate as even to discover the place where, yesterday, you plucked for me the charming Ophrys Bertolini."
My jesting words produced a strange effect. Herr Foligno stared at me blankly; his sallow face grew ashy pale; his mouth twitched convulsively as he said brokenly, "No, impossible! How--how--could you--how could you get there?"
"In the easiest way in the world," I replied, tickled that the discovery of his boast had so startled the worthy gentleman. "The spot, so difficult and even dangerous to attain, in reaching which you fell on the rocks and wounded your hand, I found right on the road to the Lonely House and most easy of attainment. From the path I saw the Ophrys blooming, and mounted without any difficulty to where it grew."
"Then you have had the good fortune to discover a new home for it which I had not known," Herr Foligno replied, having regained his self-control with surprising celerity. "I found the orchid on an overhanging rock in quite a distant part of the country."
"Indeed, that is very remarkable. Did you, by chance, lose your pocket handkerchief there? I found it in my spot--or is it not yours? Look, the yellow silk shows some spots of blood, probably from a wounded hand."
With a laugh I drew out the handkerchief and handed it to him; the black gloved hand with which he took it trembled. He examined it quite attentively for some time, and then said quietly, "This certainly is a remarkable coincidence. The handkerchief actually belongs to me, and I probably lost it yesterday in climbing about the rocks, but certainly not where you found it, for I was not even in the neighbourhood of the Lonely House. Probably one of the young goatherds here who scramble about everywhere in the mountains found it, and lost it again where you discovered it."
With the greatest calmness he put the handkerchief in his pocket. I could not refuse him my admiration, for his barefaced explanation struck me as quite brilliant. Whether I believed him or not, I must pretend to do so. Laughing heartily, I replied: "I congratulate you, Herr Foligno, on the happy chance which led the little goatherd and the old Professor to the same place, one losing, the other finding your handkerchief to restore it to you."
The Judge probably felt the irony in my words, but he took no notice of it. He offered me his hand cordially.
"It certainly is a very strange coincidence," he said. "If my acquaintances here should hear of it, it might give them material for teasing me quite unpleasantly. You will oblige me, Herr Professor, if you will not mention this little occurrence. May I rely upon you?"
"Certainly; I will be silent as the grave," I replied, still laughing, but the suspicious and evil glance which he cast at me quickly silenced my laughter. He said nothing further about the handkerchief or the Ophrys; he only made a few remarks about the unusual heat of the weather so late in the season, and then arose, saying that he was obliged to return to his office, and, therefore, to his regret, must leave me.