III.—THE CHASE IN THE SNOW.
I HAVE endeavoured to give the facts of my strange story without omission or exaggeration. If I have failed, it is not from forgetfulness; for I do not think there is a single detail that is not permanently fixed in my memory. Even now I have but to shut my eyes to see the face of Marnac peer into my old rooms at Heidelberg, to stand once more trembling with terror in the desolate courtyard of Castle Oster, to drive through the blinding snow to where the body But enough. I do not forget.
I have already told you of the murder of Professor von Stockmar by his rival, Professor Marnac of Heidelberg, and of the discovery of the crime by my cousin, Sir Henry Graden, the well-known scientist and explorer, who was then my guest at that University. I have described the steps that led to our following the murderer to Lemsdorf, in German Poland, and the means by which he compassed the death of the unfortunate Mechersky. I have, moreover, laid before you the evidence that led my cousin to believe that Marnac was suffering from delusions, and that his extraordinary crimes were in revenge for certain harsh criticisms of a book on which he had spent many years of labour. In my last statement I traced the pursuit down to the station of Lemsdorf, where the murderer, flying from the scene of his revenge upon the Russian Professor, had been turned back from the railway by Mossel the lieutenant of the Heidelberg police, who had followed us to render assistance. Mossel, indeed, had waited by Marnac's luggage for six hours, but the man himself had failed to appear.
The winter's sun, chilled to a dusky ball, was dipping behind the snow-clad ridges to the eastward when we scrambled back into the sleigh. As our tired horses stumbled through the outskirts of the straggling wooden town, the shadows rushed across the sky as if flying the pursuit of the gale that shrieked amongst the houses. Night had fallen.
Surely we had him in our hands.
He had not fled by rail. Somewhere in the town he must be lurking, this grey-haired figure with the heart of a hunted wolf. The thought of it drove away the aches and cramps of exhaustion, and I sat bolt upright in my seat, staring into the gloom ahead, half expecting to see him move across the snow before us like a slinking beast of prey. We had decided to drive straight to our own inn, the "Goldner Adler," where, as we had discovered, Marnac, under the name of Wakefield, an English traveller, had also passed the previous evening. Little had we thought that the being we pursued, fresh from the murder of the man we had come to save, was sharing the same roof-tree. Perhaps there might be news of him at the "Goldner Adier." Reski, the tall, handsome Pole, who had about him more of the feudal knight than a country inn-keeper, met us in the porch, bowing a stately welcome.
"You have had a bad drive, gentlemen," said he. "The wind has been fierce, and the snow, I fear, was heavy. Supper will be ready in half-an-hour."
"I believe a Mr. George Wakefield slept here last night," said Graden, dusting the clinging flakes from his outer wraps. "It is always pleasant to meet a compatriot. If he is still in the house, perhaps he will join us at our meal."
"Herr Wakefield! No, mein Herr, he has not yet returned."
"So, he has gone out?"
The innkeeper hesitated, glancing uneasily at his questioner. He was evidently in some uncertainty of mind.
"He is a strange man, the Herr Wakefield: though, perhaps, for an Englishman"
"He is not more mad than usual, eh, Mr. Landlord?" laughed Graden.
"Mein Herr, it was not my intention to speak thus of your great people," apologised the man. "If he has surprised us, it is doubtless because we, being ignorant country-folk, do not understand his customs."
"Why, what has he been about?"
"Well, mein Herr, it is this way. After you had started for your drive to the house of the Professor Mechersky, Herr Wakefield came running down from his room with many questions concerning you. He seemed sorry that you had gone without seeing him. He then paid his bill with the liberality of the English, who are indeed a great and generous nation, and commanded that his luggage should be carried to the station for the midday train. At eleven he himself set out for the station upon foot. We were sorry to lose so good a guest. What, then, mein Herr, was our surprise when a little after twelve he reappeared, having ridden back upon the sleigh that had taken his baggage to the station! The man who drove it told me that Herr Wakefield had left his baggage upon the platform unregistered, and that he had seen a stranger standing by it as if in charge."
Graden glanced at Mossel, who grinned luminously.
"Proceed, Mr. Landlord," he said.
"He had only peeped into the station and left at once, the man said. He demanded of me a sleigh and good horses, but the best I had were with you, and it was necessary to send for others from a neighbour. He was very impatient of the delay, using angry words. At last he drove away, and he has not returned."
"Who went with him?"
"Ivan, my eldest son."
"Did he say where he was going?"
"No, mein Herr; only I heard him cry to Ivan to follow the eastern road which is towards the Russian frontier."
"And while he waited for the horses, what did he do?"
"As I have said, at first he abused me roundly for the delay. Indeed, mein Herr, I was surprised at his knowledge of German, for before he had spoken it very badly. For the rest, he sat by himself, reading, in the best room."
"Please to show us there."
We tramped in single file after the landlord through the ill-lit passages to the "best room," a parlour set aside for important guests. It seemed a peculiarly inartistic apartment, with green wall-paper and angular chairs covered with purple antimacassars. On the central table stood a lamp, and beside it lay a number of those dingy books that seem common to inns of all nations. Graden made for them at once, and as he sorted through the pile of time-tables, catalogues, and trade-papers, we stood watching him in surprise. Suddenly he stopped in his search with a little grunt of satisfaction, and drawing a chair to the table, sat down. I looked over his shoulder. He was actually reading a German Baedeker!
"Doubtless you are planning a picnic-party?" I suggested, with as much sarcasm as I could put into the question.
"I know you are tired and hungry, my good Robert," he answered; "but please keep quiet."
He had reached "Lemsdorf"—I could see the name at the top of the page—and now was turning the leaves very slowly. Suddenly he held up the Baedeker to me.
"Do you see that?" he asked sharply.
A jagged line of paper ran along the inner crease of the guide-book. The map of the district had been torn away!
Mossel thrust me gently aside and, bending over, examined the under page thus left exposed. He took the book from Graden's hands and, carrying it to the lamp, continued his scrutiny.
"You are quite right, Mossel," said my cousin. "His pencil had a sharp point."
"You have a keen eye, Herr Graden," grinned the policeman. "In our business you would have made some reputation."
"This is a new edition. How long have you had it?" asked my cousin of the inn-keeper.
"But a few days, mein Herr."
"And have you been visited by any tourists in that time?"
"No, mein Herr."
"Then this should make it a certainty, for I have a Baedeker of my own upstairs. One moment, while I fetch it."
Graden's chair toppled to the ground as he rose. In three strides he was out of the door. I turned to Mossel with a demand for an explanation.
"Wait till Herr Graden returns," he grunted sulkily.
I have the strongest objection to those silly tricks of secrecy with which the professional police endeavour to magnify their most simple discoveries. I was speaking my mind strongly on the subject when my cousin reappeared.
"Hallo! what's the matter?" he asked. I explained the position, while the fat German chuckled in an oily, irritating manner.
"Is not the official always the same?" said Graden, with a grim smile. "Come to the light, Robert, and I'll explain."
It was certainly an ingenious discovery they had made. Upon the page upon which the map should have rested were several slight indentations, evidently the result of marks made upon the lost paper by a pencil with a fine point. With great care my cousin tore out the corresponding map from his guide-book and fitted it into the vacant place. Then, turning it slowly back, he drove a pin through the thin paper at the spots immediately above the indentations on the page below.
"The devil take him!" he cried. "Look, Mossel. This doesn't help us, after all."
It was true enough. The pin-pricks showed, first, Lemsdorf; then a cross-road some ten miles to the east; and then Bromberg, to the north, on the Berlin-Thorn, and Gnesen, to the south, on the Posen-Frankfurt railways. He had evidently been measuring and calculating indecisively.
"Do not trouble yourself, Herr Graden," said Mossel, with a wave of the hand that had more than a suggestion of patronage.
"There are still telegraphs. I will have him detained at whichever place he reaches. I shall return in half an hour—to a good supper, I trust, Mr. Landlord."
We followed him to the outer door, which opened to a writhing wilderness of snow-flakes, for the fall had recommenced. The policeman turned up his collar with a grunt of disgust and melted into the darkness. We turned to meet the face of the landlord, white and drawn with a terrible anxiety.
"My son!" he gasped. "What of my son?"
"Heaven pardon me!" cried Graden, "I had forgotten him!"
"This man he drove, that is about to be arrested—is he a criminal? Do not spare me, mein Herr."
"Your servant—our driver to-day—will be telling the tale in your kitchen, of the death of the Professor Mechersky, of Castle Oster. This man, whose name is Marnac, killed him. That is why we pursue. Yet, my friend, I see no danger for your son, unless
"Unless what, mein Herr?"
"Unless he refused to assist in the escape of the murderer."
"He is an honest boy, a good boy, but very stubborn. His horses were borrowed; he had promised to return them to-night. He would never consent to drive this man to Bromberg or Gnesen, which is at least an eighteen hours' journey. Oh, mein Herr, mein Herr! what is happening—out there in the snow?"
"We are in the hands of Providence, my friend," said my cousin gravely, laying his hand on the landlord's arm. "You can do nothing but pray that it may be well with the boy."
I was very sorry for Reski. As I made my toilet in my room upstairs, the danger of his son grew upon me. Fate, accident, Providence—whatever you choose to call it—is a strange thing, for indeed it chooses its victim with a fine impartiality. When I entered our supper-room, I found my cousin equally disturbed.
"This is a bad business about the landlord's son," he said, "I've a good mind to follow the sleigh, though it's little good that would do."
"It's an awful night," I grumbled, for indeed the wind was shrieking in the roof like a lost soul.
"You're a queer chap, Robert, with your confounded mannerisms," he said. "Yet I'll wager you'd be the first to be off into the storm in a matter of life and death."
It was not exactly complimentary, but I let it pass.
Mossel was delayed. It was close upon twenty minutes more before he arrived, a snow-swathed, stamping bear of a man, whose curses preceded him as he rolled down the passage to our room.
"What's up, Mossel?" Graden demanded sharply.
"The wires, mein Herr Graden, the wires! Potztausend! but this storm has brought them down like clothes-lines."
"A special train, then."
"They have not an engine in the shed. I have been to see; it was that which delayed me."
Graden drew a sheet of paper from his pocket and glanced at it swiftly.
"There is not a train till ten in the morning," he said. "He will be at Bromberg, which is the nearer town, by eleven at latest. This is a branch line, and we could not get there under three hours. It is now seven. An old man as he is could hardly travel through such a night without stops for food. Again, this lad who drove him may have refused to proceed. We must chance it, my friends, and follow."
"I thought you had already so decided when I saw the sleighs door," said Mossel.
"Sleighs, Mossel? I ordered no sleighs!"
"Well, they're there. Two troikas with three good horses apiece. Come and see for yourself."
The policeman had spoken the truth. On the leeward side of the porch two sleighs were waiting. The light from the open door behind us shimmered on the drifting snow and flashed on the bells about the horses' necks. It was bitterly cold, and I was turning to retreat into the hall when a man wrapped in furs moved out of the darkness. It was the keeper of the inn, his face grey-white, like the underside of a sole.
"Whose sleighs are these?" asked Graden sharply.
"Mine, Mr. Englishman, mine. I follow to save my boy."
"And the horses?"
"The best in Lemsdorf. They are private teams, lent by those who had pity upon my sorrow."
"May we come with you?"
"I would ask for nothing better, mein Herr."
Inside of ten minutes I was ready to start, with a borrowed cloak flung over my thickest clothes, and a huge hunch of bread-and-meat in my hand. Quick as I had been, Mossel and my cousin were already dressed and in consultation. We were to drive to the cross-roads, they told me, and then separate, the one sleigh, with Graden, Mossel, and an experienced driver, taking the road to Bromberg, which, being the shorter, was more likely to be the one Marnac had chosen; the other, containing the innkeeper and myself, was to follow the Gnesen road. I was not particularly pleased at the prospect of parting with my friends, but I made no objection to this plan. We entered our sleighs, rolling ourselves in the rugs.
"Are you armed?" Graden called across to the innkeper in his little seat before me.
"Yes, mein Herr. Do you go first, for you have the better team."
The chase was up indeed!
As we passed on to the plain outside the town, the gale that came charging out of frozen Russia leapt upon us with a howl of furious joy. The flakes that rose from beneath the curved runners and the beating hoofs fled spinning into the night. The sky hung low and black and starless above the white sheet of rolling snow. The little sleigh-bells grew silent in the heavier drifts, breaking out again where the track was harder. A hundred yards ahead the sparks of Graden's pipe flashed as they kindled in the wind. The fall had almost ceased.
My driver sat squarely before me, with a rein in each of his fur-gloved hands. I could not see his face, but from his projecting head and hunched shoulders I could imagine how he looked, peering over his horses into the night, with fear gripping at his soul.
I must admit that for myself I was in a condition of petulant discomfort. The slightest movement seemed to give entrance to some new draught that chilled my arm or ran trickling down my spine. Now and again a flake of snow lodged in my neck or ear and melted icily. Tired, cold, and hungry, I lay amid my rugs, cursing the folly that had led me to take a hand in a business that should have been left to the police. I had the keenest desire for a quarrel, but being to all conversational purposes alone, that relief was impossible.
Within two miles of Lemsdorf we had left the plain for the forest. The moon was obscured, yet a faint light filtered down from above, finding a reflection in the snow, and emphasising the black pillars of the pines that went sliding by. There was now no trace of our companions save the marks of their runners on the track; over the woods brooded an utter silence, broken only by the swish of our sleigh and the murmur of the bells rising and falling in a low, monotonous melody. It was as if we were passing through the waste places of a dying world. One of my feet began to grow numb, and when I turned about that I might shelter it, the snow that had gathered on my collar plunged down my neck, so that I shivered with cold. But on the whole I was reasonably warm amongst my wraps, and a feeling of drowsiness grew upon me.
It was Reski's voice that woke me. We had halted in a dim clearing in the woods. A score of yards away the second sleigh was waiting. Evidently we had reached the cross-roads, where we were to part.
"Any tracks?" shouted my driver.
"No," came Graden's answer. "The wind and the fresh fall have cleared them away. Are you all right, Robert?"
"I am exceeding uncomfortable, if that is what you want to know," I shouted back. Indeed, it was a silly question to ask me. My temper was not improved by a distant chuckle which I attributed to Mossel.
"Cheer up, Robert!" continued my cousin. "If you run across him, you must do your best. Reski will see you through, never fear; but I don't think there is much chance of your coming up with him, for he will have taken the shorter route which we follow. Anyhow, remember that the rendezvous is at the 'Drei Kronen,' at Thorn. If you catch him, telegraph there; if the wires are down, send a messenger. Do you understand?"
"You are perfectly lucid."
"Well, good-bye."
The snow spurted from under their horse's hoofs as they swung on to the north road. Then my driver shouted to his team, and we, too, rushed forward, but on the other track curving south and east. For a minute I could hear their bells tinkling an echo in the distance. Then they died away into silence.
My interest in the chase suddenly expanded. Now that my cousin had deserted me, it seemed an ugly, dangerous business. Marnac would stop at nothing, that was certain. Supposing we should chance upon this desperate maniac, what then? My driver was armed, and had the appearance of a bold, courageous man. Was be so in reality? I stared up at his back and wondered.
We had travelled the half of a mile, when from the black of the forest before us rose a cry, a fierce, chuckling bay that sent the horses plunging across the road. In the solitude of those ice-bound woods it sounded the more threatening, the more utterly malignant. I sprang to my feet, gripping Reski by the shoulder.
"What is that?" I cried.
"Wolves, mein Herr."
"Will they attack us?"
"Calm yourself, mein Herr," he answered gruffly, his eyes still set on the track before him. "The winter is young, and their bellies are not empty. There is no danger."
The pace of the horses had dropped to a slow trot. They advanced stiffly, with staring eyes and ears pricked forward. I remained standing, peering across the driver's seat at the white track that ran dimly away between the banks of pines.
Suddenly from a snow-powdered thicket before us there burst a chorus of low snarls that grew into the short, angry barks of dogs disturbed. With a jerk the horses stopped, trembling and squeezing themselves together with the fear that was on them.
"They have something there," cried Reski, and there was a shudder in his voice. "Otherwise they would not be so bold. Take the reins, mein Herr."
He thrust them into my hands and jumped from the seat. His pistol flashed, and I caught a glimpse of forms scurrying over the snow. Then the darkness fell again like a veil.
"What have you found?" I shouted.
"Under the trees it is hard to see," came back his answer. "Perhaps—I was mistaken. But wait."
He struck a match, and his tall, thin figure sprang out in silhouette as he moved slowly forward, shielding the light with his hands.
"Here are the footprints of the wolves … it was here that they were gathered. There is something by the tree. … It is not a log—mein Gott! but it is not a log, though it lies so still. … I fear to approach—how I fear! Have mercy! It is a man! It is Ivan, my son!"
We were on Marnac's trail—the trail of the dead.
•••••
At last it was all over. Alone, for I dared not leave my hold upon the frightened horses, Reski carried his son to the sleigh and laid him there beside me, with a rug across the face. He had been killed from behind, poor lad, with a revolver shot in the back of his head. He had refused to proceed, and Marnac had not hesitated. That was plain enough. I thanked God that we had been in time—to save him from the wolves.
Yet there had been but a short delay. For when Reski had seen his dead bestowed upon the sleigh, he had taken the reins and sent his horses forward. He did not speak, nor did I offer him consolation. But as I watched him sitting above me, peering ahead like some old teak figure on a vessel's bows, there was a grim intensity about the man, a fixed resolve that was strange to witness. So we fled through the night, down the interminable avenues of pines, bearing our dead with us.
It was one o'clock when we lit upon a wayside inn. Our clamour aroused the landlord, who directed us to where a kettle simmering on the stove gave a warm mash for the horses and hot brandy for ourselves. He was sleepily incurious, nor did he inquire what was the thing beneath the rugs which we carried with us. But he gave us news. Marnac had left there less than two hours before. He had been greatly delayed by a collision with a tree, and some rough repairs had been necessary. One of his horses, too, had been slightly lamed. Yet Reski showed no unusual interest in the tale we heard. He spent his time with his horses, grooming and soothing them. It was not till they had rested three-quarters of an hour that he called me out from my seat by the stove, and again we swept away upon the chase.
It was at dawn that we sighted him. He was climbing a long slope, a black speck in the white riband of a road. Above him, long flakes of orange cloud were slowly brightening and deepening in colour. As he topped the hill, the sun came peering up over a moorland heaped with tumbled drifts. The sky flushed and faded to a deep cobalt blue. So day came.
It almost seemed as if our horses understood. They increased their pace without a touch of the whip, tugging at the frozen, twisted reins. As they, too, rose the hill, Reski shouted to them, and they stepped briskly forward. The fresh snow had frozen, and we travelled well, the surface crackling as we crushed over it. We were less than a quarter of a mile from him when he turned and noticed us. We saw him spring to his feet and lash his team, but the off-side horse was running stiffly and his pace scarcely increased. He leant down, fumbling and searching at his feet, while he held the reins in one hand. After that he did not hurry, but drove steadily forward, glancing at us now and again over his shoulder.
We drew up swiftly—four hundred yards. three hundred yards, one hundred And then, with a short, fierce bark of rage, the Pole dragged out his revolver and fired. As he did so, the sharp hum of a bullet, like the buzz of an angry bee, fled over us. I ducked my head at the sound; but I give myself the credit of saying that I poked it up again the next moment.
"May the Fiend grip him, but he has a Mauser pistol!" cried Reski, and I saw that the weapon in his own hand was of the common bull-dog make. "At this range I can do nothing against him."
He lashed his horses, and they plunged gallantly forward. I could see that Marnac had stopped his sleigh and was cuddling his weapon with a perfect coolness. Even at that distance I seemed to feel the goggling murder in his eyes.
Zip! zip! He had missed again!
Thung! I saw one of the galloping horses stagger, and then his head and shoulders seemed to fall away, as if he had dropped forward into a hole. There was a bumping and a twisting wrench, the snow by the roadside seemed to spring up at me, and the next instant I was struggling in cold, blinding darkness.
I wriggled out from the drift, gasping, with the flakes in my mouth and eyes. The sleigh was twisted across the road, half covering the dead horse. The other two had scrambled to their feet and now stood shivering, with drooping heads. The fall had knocked the heart clean out of them. Reski lay beside them, huddled where he had fallen. Eighty yards away Marnac had stopped and was watching us. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, for presently he turned and, lashing his team, trotted on down the road.
I don't suppose it was more than a couple of minutes before Reski came round, though it seemed long enough to me. He had got a nasty thump on the head, but as a matter of fact his wrist turned out to be the more serious business, being very badly sprained indeed. I made a sling out of a neck-wrap and fixed him up as well as I was able. The man had a remarkable vitality, besides brute courage, for, the moment I had finished, he walked over and examined the sleigh.
It looked hopeless enough. One of the runners had been torn almost clean away, and the central part was badly cracked. The body of the poor lad Ivan lay on its back in the roadway, staring up at the sky. I threw a rug over it.
"Well, we can't go on, that's certain," I said.
"Not in the sleigh, mein Herr," he answered calmly.
"And how else?"
"There are the horses, one for each. When you have freed them of their harness, I will ask you to assist me to mount."
There was no good arguing with him, and I was ashamed to seem less eager than a man in his crippled condition. With his clasp knife I cut the twisted traces away and freed them of their collars. At his direction I dragged the body of Ivan into the sleigh and left him there decently covered.
Reski mounted from the stump of a tree, to which I led the stronger of the pair. I was a fairly good rider, but I was excessively stiff from my long drive, and not a little shaken by my fall. My beast seemed to have the sharpest knife-bone of a back that Nature ever gave to horseflesh. But, after all, there was nothing to be gained by grumbling. Perhaps I was growing wiser by painful experience.
A curious pair we must have looked that morning. Reski, with his arm in a sling, and the butt of his revolver peeping from his waist-belt, would have made as good a stage brigand as need be. For myself, I was in too much of immediate pain from the jolting trot of the brute I rode to carry a formidable appearance. I could never have imagined that a horse lived with such adamantine fetlocks as mine seemed to possess.
I have no exact record of the time, but I should imagine that it was about half an hour later that we sighted Marnac again. He was then a good three-quarters of a mile ahead, but travelling leisurely. Also, I was very glad to notice that we were free of the waste lands, and that the spire of a church was poking out amongst some poplars ahead of him. He would never dare to use his revolver a second time when men were about. Also, we might procure another sleigh and team.
Reski sent his heels into his horse, and we quickened our pace, though the poor brutes were getting very done and drove heavily along with hanging heads. It was about then that I noticed a man behind us.
We were topping a slight rise when I looked round. He was then some distance in our rear, but coming up fast. As far as I could make out, he was in a sort of uniform and well mounted. The possibility of official help was very pleasant.
We were gaining on Marnac, who had not yet noticed us.
With kicks and curses from Reski, and the application, of a hazel branch from myself, we had squeezed a lumbering gallop out of our horses. The sleigh was not more than one hundred yards away. Reski gripped his reins in his teeth and drew his revolver.
"Stop, there! Stop, I say, in the name of the law!"
It was the man from behind who hailed us, but we rode on.
"Stop, or I fire!"
I pulled up. I don't think it was very cowardly when you think of it. Besides, I was anxious to explain.
Reski rode on.
The man who had shouted flashed by me, travelling at an easy gallop. He was dressed in a neat green uniform and carried a drawn revolver.
Reski rode on.
It was all over in a moment. The stranger cried another warning, to which the Pole answered with a snarl over his shoulder. The next instant there was a sharp report, and Reski's horse pitched forward, throwing his rider clear. He was then scarcely thirty yards from Marnac's sleigh.
The Pole was not hurt apparently, for despite his injured arm he scrambled to his feet in an instant. But he had lost his revolver in his fall and was helpless. He began a furious explanation in his national tongue, dropping the hated language of his Teuton conquerors.
"Speak in German, you Polish dog!" growled his captor, and then turning on me as I rode up—
"Here, you," he said, "dismount and stand by your accomplice. If you resist, I shoot!"
I obeyed. From his manner he was without doubt a policeman. Also I respect the law.
"Now, you," he said, addressing me, "explain, if you can, who is that man you shot and left in the broken sleigh down yonder. Remember, it is against you that you have already tried to escape and refused to surrender?"
"There is the murderer, mein Herr!" I cried, pointing to Marnac's sleigh, now rapidly vanishing. "We were chasing him. Go after him at once, or he will get away."
The policeman laughed long and loud.
"A pretty tale!" said he. "This dog of a Pole here has been in mischief, without doubt; and you, you who are"
"An Englishman," I said proudly.
"Aha! perhaps you thought you were once more murdering the helpless Boer. A Pole and an Englishman! Mein Gott! it is no wonder that together they hatched some devilish contrivance."
It was no use to make a further appeal. Reski had seen that already. Side by side we tramped through the snow, with our captor and his ready pistol behind us. In half an hour we had reached the village we had seen ahead, and were lodged in a cell infamously damp and cold. All communication with our friends was refused till the arrival of some local magistrate.
As eleven o'clock hammered from the steeple outside, Reski raised his head from his chest and glared across at me.
"He will have arrived at Gnesen," he said. "There is a great choice of trains."
It was true enough. Marnac had escaped us once again.
* Copyright, 1903, by B. Fletcher Robinson and J. Malcolm Fraser, in the United States of America.