we love or think that we love.”
He rose to his feet.
“This,” he declared, “is an absurd conversation. If I can find my way so far I am going to make a little promenade.”
“And leave me alone with all your property?” she asked, pointing with a sudden smile to the tin box.
“I shall leave you alone even with that. Baroness. Perhaps the very fact that I do so will dispel some of those suspicions you have of me. If I should happen to come across the crushed and suffocated remains of our conductor amongst this phalanx of people, is there any information you would like to have?”
“I should like to know at what hour we arrive at this little town near Feldkirch where we are to wait for the other train to join us, and whether we are supposed to leave the train for the night or remain in it.”
“I’ll do my best to find out,” he promised, “but it’s a thin chance, from what I can see.”
He paused to light a cigarette and stepped out into the corridor. It took him more than a quarter-of-an-hour to reach the conductor, who was obstinately protecting his stool in the far corner of the voiture. The corridor was jammed. Not a single window was open. One other coupé, the same size as his own, was occupied by at least a dozen English and American tourists. In every other compartment the people seemed to have wedged their way in indiscriminately. Some were sitting upon the floor outside in the corridor itself. It was necessary at times to step over crowds of prostrate men and women, some of them still asleep. Charles reached the conductor at last. The man rose and saluted him as he approached but he kept his foot upon the stool.
“I have here,” he announced, “a note for the gnãdiger Herr. If I had tried to deliver it before I should never have been able to return.”
He felt in his satchel and produced the note. It was written in Blute’s clear handwriting and addressed to him by name.
Your train will remain outside the station of Feldkirch at a small country village until ours arrives. A room is engaged for you at the only hotel—the Schweizerhof. Be sure to claim it directly you arrive. The journey will be continued at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. All well.
M. B.
Charles handed the eagerly anticipated trinkgeld to the man who took off his cap and broke into a smile which sat strangely upon his wrinkled and perspiring countenance.
“We shall arrive at about what time?” Charles enquired.
The man’s gestures were indicative of a profound ignorance.
“To-night—to-morrow night. Who can tell? We are taking the place of the great express which touches in these parts a hundred kilometres an hour. We proceed at less than thirty. Nevertheless, we make no stops. That much is to the good. I would offer my services to the gnãdiger Herr but I am helpless. There is nothing I can do. If by chance the guard should bring the train to a standstill I will offer myself to seek anything the gnãdiger Herr might wish for.”
“I have some food with me,” Charles told him. “If you have any drinkable water you can bring it along. There is nothing else I want seriously.”
Charles started on his return journey and decided that he had no curiosity left in his fellow passengers. He tore the note which he had received into small pieces and let them slip through his fingers as he passed the only opened window. The Baroness looked up expectantly as he entered the coupé. He went straight to his dressing-case, drew out a cocktail shaker wrapped in a towel, shook it violently, handed a glass to his companion, brought one out for himself, filled the two and replaced the shaker. He swallowed half his cocktail at a gulp.
“The place,” he declared, “is a madhouse. Men and women of every race, squawking babies; the women—half of them asleep—are lying about anywhere, the men angry and sullen. I don’t think I like these wild rushes.”
He lit a cigarette which she had placed between her lips, lit another for himself, refilled their glasses and put away the shaker.
“Did you collect any information?” she asked.
“Not a scrap. Apparently no one knows where we are going or when we shall get there.”
She came a little nearer to him.
“Just now I don’t much care.”
He ignored the pressure of her fingers upon his arm. His eyes were fixed upon the tin box.
“I don’t believe you’ve touched it,” he observed.
“It’s locked,” she sighed.
CHAPTER XXIII
Charles closed the atlas, which he had been studying, with a snap between quarter- and half-past six that evening. The great train was slowly slackening speed. He pointed out to his companion a tiny village composed of a few white-washed villas with overhanging roofs and fantastic decorations dimly seen through the trees.
“We are about to stop,” he announced. “I’m afraid there is nothing more that I can do for you, Baroness. I have not asked you what your plans are and I do not know my own. I shall fight my way into the inn if I can. Perhaps the station master here will be able to tell us when we move on again.”
She seemed suddenly very strange. If such a thing had been possible he would have thought her nervous. She looked out of the window. They were almost at a standstill.
“I know where we are,” she said. “I have friends living not far away. I must find them.”
“I am sorry to be so ungallant,” he regretted. “This is a moment when I can offer you no further assistance.”
“I have wasted all this time,” she sighed. “We have sat looking at each other, my heart has been full, there have been words trembling on my lips. Now we shall part and they are unspoken. I shall regret it, I know, all my life.”
There was a series of violent jolts. Then they came to a standstill. People were tumbling out of the carriages in a mad procession. A brawny man in the uniform of a hotel porter came striding up the platform pushing everyone on one side. He threw open the door of the coupé.
“Herr Mildenhall!” he called out. “This way.”
He picked up the despatch box, the suitcase and dressing-case. Charles looked over his shoulder as he turned to follow the porter.
“I am being taken care of, you see, Baroness,” he said. “Farewell. We shall meet, I hope, in happier days.”
She still presented the distracted appearance of a woman torn many ways by opposing impulses. Charles stepped lightly out onto the platform.
“You are from the Schweizerhof ?” he asked.
“Ja wohl, mein Herr,” the man replied. “You follow—yes?”
He
