AN EPISODE TEN YEARS AFTER
One fine September morning in a year the date of which is of no particular importance, a man stepped out of a second-class carriage on to the canopied platform of the railway terminus in the ancient and picturesque city of Bleiberg.He yawned, shook himself, and stretched his arms and legs, relieved to find that the tedious journey from Vienna had not cramped those appendages beyond recovery.
He stood some inches above the average height, and was built up in a manner that suggested the handiwork of a British drill-master, his figure being both muscular and symmetrical.Besides, there was on his skin that rich brown shadow which is the result only of the forces of the sun and wind, a life in the open air.
This color gave peculiar emphasis to the yellow hair and mustache.His face was not handsome, if one accept the Greek profile as a model of manly beauty, but it was cleanly and boldly cut, healthful, strong and purposeful, based on determined jaws and a chin which would have been obstinate but for the presence of a kindly mouth.
A guard deposited at his feet a new hatbox, a battered traveling bag and two gun cases which also gave evidence of rough usage.
The luggage was literally covered with mutilated square and oblong slips of paper of many colors, on which were printed the advertisements of far-sighted hotel keepers all the way from Bombay to London and half-way back across the continent.
There was nothing to be seen, however, indicative of the traveler's name.He surveyed his surroundings with lively interest shining in his gray eyes, one of which peered through a monocle encircled by a thin rim of tortoise shell.He watched the fussy customs officials, who, by some strange mischance, overlooked his belongings.Finally he made an impatient gesture.
"Find me a cab," he said to the attentive guard, who, with an eye to the main chance, had waved off the approach of a station porter."If the inspectors are in no hurry, I am.""At once, my lord;" and the guard, as he stooped and lifted the luggage, did not see the start which this appellation caused the stranger to make, but who, after a moment, was convinced that the guard had given him the title merely out of politeness.The guard placed the traps inside of one of the many vehicles stationed at the street exit of the terminus.He was an intelligent and deductive servant.
The traveler was some noted English lord who had come to Bleiberg to shoot the famed golden pheasant, and had secured a second-class compartment in order to demonstrate his incognito.
Persons who traveled second-class usually did so to save money;yet this tall Englishman, since the train departed from Vienna, had almost doubled in gratuities the sum paid for his ticket.
The guard stood respectfully at the door of the cab, doffed his cap, into which a memento was dropped, and went along about his business.
The Englishman slammed the door, the jehu cracked his whip, and a moment later the hoarse breathings of the motionless engines became lost in the sharper noises of the city carts.The unknown leaned against the faded cushions, curled his mustache, and smiled as if well satisfied with events.It is quite certain that his sense of ease and security would have been somewhat disturbed had he known that another cab was close on the track of his, and that its occupant, an officer of the city gendarmerie, alternately smiled and frowned as one does who floats between conviction and uncertainty.At length the two vehicles turned into the Konigstrasse, the principal thoroughfare of the capital, and here the Englishman's cab came to a stand.The jehu climbed down and opened the door.
"Did Herr say the Continental?" he asked.
"No; the Grand."
The driver shrugged, remounted his box, and drove on.The Grand Hotel was clean enough and respectable, but that was all that could be said in its favor.He wondered if the Englishman would haggle over the fare.Englishmen generally did.He was agreeably disappointed, however, when, on arriving at the mean hostelry, his passenger plunged a hand into a pocket and produced three Franz-Josef florins.
"You may have these," he said, "for the trouble of having them exchanged into crowns."As he whipped up, the philosophical cabman mused that these tourists were beyond the pale of his understanding.With a pocket full of money, and to put up at the Grand! Why not the Continental, which lay close to the Werter See, the palaces, the royal and public gardens? It was at the Continental that the fine ladies and gentlemen from Vienna, and Innsbruck, and Munich, and Belgrade, resided during the autumn months.But the Grand--ach! it was in the heart of the shops and markets, and within a stone's throw of that gloomy pile of granite designated in the various guide books as the University of Bleiberg.
The Englishman had some difficulty in finding a pen that would write, and the ink was oily, and the guest-book was not at the proper angle.At last he managed to form the letters of his name, which was John Hamilton.After some deliberation, he followed this with "England." The proprietor, who acted as his own clerk, drew the book toward him, and after some time, deciphered the cabalistic signs.
"Ah, Herr John Hamilton of England; is that right?""Yes; I am here for a few days' shooting.Can you find me a man to act as guide?""This very morning, Herr."
"Thanks."
