CHAPTER XVI

SHOWS HOW THE GREAT SWORD WAS MISSED FROM THE WALL

The day passed slowly for Scanlon; he put in a few hours with the newspapers, which were always brought to Schwartzberg about noon; then he selected an armful of likely looking books and took them to his room.

But the adventures therein related were not to his taste. He was in no humour for the accumulation of unexplained incident; what he wanted at that particular time was clarity--a breeze which would blow through the castle of intrigue and drive out the obscuring vapours.

“This fellow,” remarked he, turning the leaves of one of the books, “is too much like myself. Here he starts out under a cloud; and as he goes along, instead of getting rid of it, he adds to it. At page one hundred he has a collection of clouds the like of which I never saw in a book before. Then they proceed to break, and he has a fine little storm on his hands, with thunder and lightning and wind. If it only cleared up then, all right. But it doesn’t. The clouds still stick around; the fellow never gets a chance to do anything, for he can’t see far enough ahead.”

He threw the book upon the table and yawned. Then he proceeded to dress for dinner.

Once more he was surprised to find that Miss Hohenlo would dine with them.

“Really,” she declared, girlishly, “I seem to be in splendid spirits. I haven’t been well enough to come down to dinner for ever so long before last night. I don’t understand it. There must be something in the air.”

“It is very possible,” spoke Miss Knowles, smilingly. “I think I have detected it myself.”

While the two women talked, Campe engaged his guest in conversation.

“Kretz tells me that there was a stranger about the place to-day,” said he, with an assumption of carelessness, but with a troubled look in his eyes.

Scanlon nodded easily.

“A sick fellow,” said he. “From the inn over yonder. Something of a botanist, I think. He said he was looking for specimens.”

“Botanists don’t usually select November as a time for their work,” observed Campe. “That was a subterfuge, and that he thought it necessary to use one shows his intentions to be at least open to question.”

Bat acknowledged this with a nod.

“Only a few of us ever lie without a reason,” said he.

Miss Hohenlo, who had turned to listen, gesticulated admiringly and in such a way that her small white hands were well displayed.

“You have such a delightfully straightforward way with you, Mr. Scanlon,” she said. “I think it’s so refreshing. I suppose it comes of living so long in the West among people who have none of the subtleties of over-civilization, and among the grand wild scenery.”

“Maybe,” said Bat, “or it might be something else. You can’t always put the brand on a straightforward talker, and his reasons for being such, any more than you can on a botanist who picks the wrong time of the year to carry on his researches. I knew a fellow named Cameron once who kept the ‘Deuce High’ at Cripple Creek, and was the most civil fellow I ever met. His next best thing was straightforward talk, and he used to reel it off by the mile. Everybody took it in until one night, in the middle of a speech, somebody caught him slipping cards from the bottom of the pack. After that they sort of lost confidence.”

“Such a wild, reckless life,” sighed Miss Hohenlo, her pretty hands before her face, as though to shut it out. “And yet,” with an air, “I could almost wish I were a man so that I might take part in it.”

“You don’t have to be a man to do a little thing like that,” said Scanlon. He addressed Miss Hohenlo, but as he spoke his eyes were upon Miss Knowles. “Some women run a dead heat with the speediest of men.”

“Oh, not really!” exclaimed the spinster. “You can’t mean it.”

“It’s been my experience,” said Bat, “that the ladies are not a bit different from men in their undertakings. They just go about it differently.”

Miss Knowles laughed a little.

“I’m not quite sure whether you are complimenting us or no,” said she. “But I don’t agree with you at any rate. No woman, for instance, could have done what you did last night.”

Bat shook his head.

“She could,” stated he. “What is there to walking quietly down a dark hall? Don’t you think a woman would have the nerve to do that?”

Calmly he studied the beautiful face before him, and he saw a deeper tint creep into the pink of her cheeks.

“Oh, perhaps that,” said she.

“And more,” insisted Bat. “Much more. What did I do but hold a quiet conversation with the burglar as he went about his work. Is that too much for a woman to do? I’ll venture that one of them has talked just as quietly with a housebreaker, and almost under the same conditions, before now.”

The blue eyes of Miss Knowles fixed themselves upon him in a wide open stare. There was a smile upon her lips, but in the eyes he could see something else--something very like fear.

Campe, as was usual with him, had grown absent-minded, and brooding; apparently his mind was filled with suspicions as to the purpose of the supposed prowler of the morning; at any rate he took no part in the conversation; indeed, he did not seem to hear it.

It was the voice of Miss Hohenlo which broke the silence.

“My dear Grace,” said she, “you look frightened. You are really growing nervy. And once I thought you were, as you look, a Brunhilde.” She leaned toward the girl, looking at her curiously. “And the mere idea of a woman engaging in such an adventure has frightened you.”

Miss Knowles shook her golden head and laughed. Her blue eyes were filled with amusement and the fear had vanished.

“I was trying to imagine myself in such a position. And I think the result was too vivid.”

But Mr. Scanlon seemed doubtful.

“I don’t think it was that,” spoke he, confidently. “It must have been something else. You’d go through such an adventure and never wink an eye.”

Miss Hohenlo clasped her hands with delicate satisfaction.

“Oh, Mr. Scanlon,” said she, “I’m delighted that you won’t permit Grace to think meanly of herself. For, when you’ve come to know her as I do, she is really a wonderful person.” Here the eyes of the two women met in a look so rapid that Scanlon was unable to interpret it. “You are quite right. I have the greatest faith in her courage, and what I said a few moments ago in doubt of it was merely a jest. Grace, you know, would really dare anything.”

“Oh, please, Miss Hohenlo,” said the girl, in protest.

“You would, my dear; you know you would. It would only require,” and here the faded eyes went from the beautiful face of Miss Knowles to the attentive one of Mr. Scanlon, “it would only require the necessity. Let that be sufficient,” said Miss Hohenlo, nodding quite positively, “and Grace would be equal to anything.”

“I wish,” said the girl, “what you say were true. For there are many such occasions,” and she smiled at Scanlon, “which arise and demand to be met. And I’m afraid I don’t do the work very well.”

After this Scanlon fell into a silence, not an absent one such as Campe seemed plunged in, but alert and observant. When appealed to he replied briefly, but he did not lose a word or miss an expression of either face.

“Here,” said he, mentally, “is where I break my new-made resolution. For the time being I am not a non-reasoning recorder. I must reason, or I’ll sink. And as something seems on the move between the ladies, I don’t want to do that.”

“You would do anything well, my dear Grace.” Here Miss Hohenlo’s white hand smoothed her faded hair. “Anything in the world. But being clever and ingenious and persistent, I am sorry to say, does not always bring success. And if you have failed in any of your undertakings it is this, and not yourself, that is to blame.”

“I wish I could think so,” said the girl. “Perhaps I would then have the energy to go on.”

“Energy!” Miss Hohenlo laughed gently. “Oh, Grace, as if you could ever lack that--you who are energy itself. Mr. Scanlon, please speak to her again; she will insist upon doing herself these little injustices.”

The tones of the two women were mild, their looks were kind, their words were inconsequent; and yet underneath all these things the big man seemed to detect a rapid play of meaning.

“It’s there,” said he, to himself, “but, as usual, I am not getting it. However, one thing is plain--the elderly lady is on top of the younger one; and if it is at all possible, I’m going to find out how it is before the night is done.”

In this purpose events seemed to favour Scanlon. Miss Knowles proposed a game of billiards with Campe after dinner, and as Miss Hohenlo declined, Bat declined also; and so he was left alone with her in the great room where the tapestries hung.

The spinster caressed the strings of the gilt harp gently; Bat lounged in a deep chair and talked to her.

“Have you lived in this country very long?” he asked her, finally.

“Only two years,” said she.

Bat expressed his astonishment.

“But you speak the language so well,” he said.

She laughed, and the harp murmured under her touch.

“You are thinking of my having lived in Mexico, or in Germany, before that,” she said. “Well, I have. But, you see, I was educated in England and the United States.”

“Oh, yes,” said the big man; “that accounts for it then.” He watched her for a little and listened to the soft sounds she drew from the strings. “But Miss Knowles,” he said, “she speaks the language very well also.”

“She should,” replied Miss Hohenlo calmly, “seeing that she is American.”

“No,” said Bat, apparently much amazed. “I was sure she was German.”

Miss Hohenlo laughed quietly.

“It is very easy for Grace to create impressions,” she said. “She has talent in that direction.”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she had a lot of it,” agreed Mr. Scanlon. “But it was the yellow hair and so on, I guess, that made me think her a German.”

“She dresses to conform with the background,” said Miss Hohenlo gently. “Dear Grace, she is such a beauty. The braids of yellow hair and the strength of her outline go very well with a place like Schwartzberg.”

“You’ve been together a long time,” said Mr. Scanlon, “and you think a lot of her, I know.”

“She’s been with me since Frederic’s father died,” said Miss Hohenlo. “She was the daughter of a friend and business partner. I am very fond of her.”

“I think,” said Mr. Scanlon, carefully, “your nephew is, also.”

“Frederic!” Miss Hohenlo struck the strings and they reverberated thrillingly. “He loves her.”

“I had supposed something like that was the case,” admitted Bat. “He never said anything, you know, but a fellow can usually size up these matters.” There was a pause during which the harp spoke murmuringly, and Bat kept the time upon the arms of his chair with his fingers. “And do you know, when I did finally size it up,” he added, “it gave me quite a start.”

The beautiful hands left the strings and clasped themselves together; Miss Hohenlo turned an incredulous face toward the speaker.

“Gave _you_ a start!” she said. “Oh, Mr. Scanlon, one can’t imagine anything like that.”

“Well,” said Bat, “maybe you wouldn’t think so, seeing I turn the scales at about fourteen stone, and was brought up in the open. But start I did on that occasion.”

“But why?” and the dull eyes of the spinster were full of wonder. “Why?”

“Your nephew,” said the big man, “is a friend of mine. And a fellow never likes to see a friend venturing into a thing which might not be right.”

Miss Hohenlo shook one pretty finger at him girlishly.

“Oh, you bachelors,” she said; “you have such a dread of marriage.”

“Nature always helps its own,” said Bat. “If it can’t provide you with a courage to meet a thing, it supplies a fear which makes you duck and in that way save yourself. But,” he frowned at a rug on the floor before him, and stroked his chin, “it wasn’t of marriage I was thinking.”

“No?”

“No,” said Bat, “it was the girl.”

His eyes were still on the rug, but for all that he caught the sudden tenseness of her attitude.

“Grace!” she said, and there was a sharpness in her voice which was new to him. “What do you mean?”

The big man studied the rug under his bent brows. He felt that the situation, now that he had brought it to this point, was a delicate one, and knew that he must be careful. Indeed, it was so exceedingly delicate and required so much care that under other circumstances he would not have ventured to tackle it. But he wanted to help Campe; his curiosity was aroused, and he felt convinced that there was something hostile between the two women. And so he launched himself upon waters which might prove a mill pond or a whirlpool.

“Miss Knowles,” stated he, “is a good looker. She’s got a figure that makes the best of them look like cripples, and I never want to see a nicer smile. Along these lines she’s a winner, and I have nothing but praise for her.”

“But,” said Miss Hohenlo, attentively, “along some others you feel that you can _not_ praise her.”

Bat acknowledged this by a gesture.

“Not that I am very definite in the matter,” said he, “for I’m not. You see----” but he stopped short as he was about to add something else, and after looking into the dull, uninteresting face before him, he said: “You’ve been here at Schwartzberg for some time, I suppose.”

“Since early summer. When Frederic wrote that he was here and meant to stay for a time, I was overjoyed. You see, I love the memory of the old count, my ancestor, and this place is so full of him.”

“Being given to staying indoors and to music and such,” said Bat, “you’d not be likely to see as much or notice as many things as some one who goes about more; but, for all that, you must have seen that there’s something the matter here in Schwartzberg.”

Miss Hohenlo arose; leaving the harp, she walked to a window and stood for a moment looking out into the darkness. When she turned, the dull eyes were filled with tears; the small face was piteous with pleading. All the affectation had vanished; her manner was simple and direct.

“Mr. Scanlon,” she said, “you are a friend of Frederic’s, and I am glad of the chance to talk with you upon this subject. As you say, there is something amiss in Schwartzberg; I’ve been aware of it for months. But my nephew is unapproachable upon the subject; I am ashamed to say he is more like a frightened child than a man whose life has been put in danger.”

“Deep waters,” acknowledged Bat. “And they may even run deeper still.”

The beautiful hands went out in a despairing gesture at this.

“Oh, I hope not!” she exclaimed. “For his sake I hope not. And it’s a torture to me to see him so.” She was silent for a moment, and then went on: “I have given him every opportunity to confide in me, but he will not. And so, Mr. Scanlon, I am like a stranger. Danger, even death, perhaps, is hovering over the house, and I know nothing except the little that comes to me by chance.”

“Since I’ve been here I’ve felt about the same way,” said Scanlon, “though, of course, I haven’t so much reason as you.”

“I could not speak to Frederic, and I must not speak to the servants. So,” said Miss Hohenlo, “there was left only--Grace.”

Again there came the pause, this time longer than before. Finally Scanlon said:

“Well?”

She came nearer to him. Never had she looked plainer or more angular; never had her eyes seemed duller or her hair with less life.

“But I could not speak to her. There was a something which stood between us--perhaps the same feeling which you had--and it held me back.” One of the delicate hands went out and rested on Scanlon’s sleeve. “What is it?” she asked.

But the big man could only shake his head.

“At times,” said Miss Hohenlo, “she comes to me with the strangest requests. They seem to be without meaning, and yet, somehow, I am afraid of them.”

“Requests?”

“They seem silly,” said the spinster, a dazed look in the dull eyes. “I’ve tried to give a meaning to them, but never could. For example, she’ll often, of an evening, ask me to go to a window and pretend to be interested in the direction of the wind. And she makes me promise not to tell.”

“Jove!” said Mr. Scanlon.

“Then she has a way of jesting about my playing of the harp, and of other things which seem to be odd in tone and in meaning. I’ve never been able to understand them.”

Scanlon nodded; he could readily see this as the things had made the same impression upon himself. Then, guardedly, he began to speak. Little by little he told Miss Hohenlo of the numerous things which had attracted his attention to Miss Knowles since his arrival at Schwartzberg. And when he had done, she stood staring at him like a small scared animal.

“It’s dreadful!” she said. “Who would ever have dreamed of such a thing?”

From the courtyard there came a dull complaining sound.

“Hello,” said Scanlon, in surprise; “what’s that?”

“It’s the gate,” spoke Miss Hohenlo. “Some one is opening it.”

The night, though the month was November, was an exceedingly mild one, and the windows were partly open. Through one of these they looked down into the courtyard. Kretz was at the gate drawing the bolts, and beside him stood Miss Knowles, a long, muffling wrap hanging to her feet.

“She is going out,” breathed Miss Hohenlo.

The big gate creaked open, and for a moment the girl and the grim-faced German spoke in low tones. He seemed expostulating, but she appeared to brush his words aside as being of no consequence. Suddenly their talk ceased. Campe appeared, a cap upon his head, a stick in his hand.

“Frederic!” Miss Hohenlo was amazed. “He, too, is going!”

The gate swung to behind them, and the sergeant-major shot the bolts.

“The last night those two were out there among the hills,” said Scanlon, “he was slashed--and maybe with the sword which she had taken out of this room.”

At this a cry came from the woman.

“Look!” she gasped, and pointed toward the narrow strip of tapestry between the windows, the place where the great sword usually hung.

“By Jingo!” cried Scanlon. “It’s gone!”