The Case Of The Pool Of Blood In The Pastor's Study





I



The sun rose slowly over the great bulk of the Carpathian mountains

lying along the horizon, weird giant shapes in the early morning

mist. It was still very quiet in the village. A cock crowed here

and there, and swallows flew chirping close to the ground, darting

swiftly about preparing for their higher flight. Janci the shepherd,

apparently the only human being already up, stood beside the brook

at the point where the old bridge spans the streamlet, still

turbulent from the mountain floods. Janci was cutting willows to

make his Margit a new basket.



Once the shepherd raised his head from his work, for he thought he

heard a loud laugh somewhere in the near distance. But all seemed

silent and he turned back to his willows. The beauty of the

landscape about him was much too familiar a thing that he should

have felt or seen its charm. The violet hue of the distant woods,

the red gleaming of the heather-strewn moor, with its patches of

swamp from which the slow mist arose, the pretty little village with

its handsome old church and attractive rectory--Janci had known it

so long that he never stopped to realise how very charming, in its

gentle melancholy, it all was.



Also, Janci did not know that this little village of his home had

once been a flourishing city, and that an invasion of the Turks

had razed it to the ground leaving, as by a miracle, only the church

to tell of former glories.



The sun rose higher and higher. And now the village awoke to its

daily life. Voices of cattle and noises of poultry were heard

about the houses, and men and women began their accustomed round of

tasks. Janci found that he had gathered enough willow twigs by

this time. He tied them in a loose bundle and started on his

homeward way.



His path led through wide-stretching fields and vineyards past a

little hill, some distance from the village, on which stood a large

house. It was not a pleasant house to look at, not a house one

would care to live in, even if one did not know its use, for it

looked bare and repellant, covered with its ugly yellow paint, and

with all the windows secured with heavy iron bars. The trees that

surrounded it were tall and thick-foliaged, casting an added gloom

over the forbidding appearance of the house. At the foot of the

hill was a high iron fence, cutting off what lay behind it from

all the rest of the world. For this ugly yellow house enclosed

in its walls a goodly sum of hopeless human misery and misfortune.

It was an insane asylum.



For twenty years now, the asylum had stood on its hill, a source of

superstitious terror to the villagers, but at the same time a source

of added income. It meant money for them, for it afforded a

constant and ever-open market for their farm products and the output

of their home industry. But every now and then a scream or a harsh

laugh would ring out from behind those barred windows, and those in

the village who could hear, would shiver and cross themselves.

Shepherd Janci had little fear of the big house. His little hut

cowered close by the high iron gates, and he had a personal

acquaintance with most of the patients, with all of the attendants,

and most of all, with the kind elderly physician who was the head

of the establishment. Janci knew them all, and had a kind word

equally for all. But otherwise he was a silent man, living much

within himself.



When the shepherd reached his little home, his wife came to meet

him with a call to breakfast. As they sat down at the table a

shadow moved past the little window. Janci looked up. "Who was

that?" asked Margit, looking up from her folded hands. She had

just finished her murmured prayer.



"Pastor's Liska," replied Janci indifferently, beginning his meal.

(Liska was the local abbreviation for Elizabeth.)'



"In such a hurry?" thought the shepherd's wife. Her curiosity would

not let her rest. "I hope His Reverence isn't ill again," she

remarked after a while. Janci did not hear her, for he was very

busy picking a fly out of his milk cup.



"Do you think Liska was going for the old man?" began Margit again

after a few minutes.



The "old man" was the name given by the people of the village, more

as a term of endearment than anything else, to the generally loved

and respected physician who was the head of the insane asylum. He

had become general mentor and oracle of all the village and was

known and loved by man, woman and child.



"It's possible," answered Janci.



"His Reverence didn't look very well yesterday, or maybe the old

housekeeper has the gout again."



Janci gave a grunt which might have meant anything. The shepherd

was a silent man. Being alone so much had taught him to find his

own thoughts sufficient company. Ten minutes passed in silence

since Margit's last question, then some one went past the window.

There were two people this time, Liska and the old doctor. They

were walking very fast, running almost. Margit sprang up and

hurried to the door to look after them.



Janci sat still in his place, but he had laid aside his spoon and

with wide eyes was staring ahead of him, murmuring, "It's the pastor

this time; I saw him--just as I did the others."



"Shepherd, the inn-keeper wants to see you, there's something the

matter with his cow." Count ---- a young man, coming from the other

direction and pushing in at the door past Margit, who stood there

staring up the road.



Janci was so deep in his own thoughts that he apparently did not

hear the boy's words. At all events he did not answer them, but

himself asked an unexpected question--a question that was not

addressed to the others in the room, but to something out and

beyond them. It was a strange question and it came from the lips

of a man whose mind was not with his body at that moment--whose

mind saw what others did not see.



"Who will be the next to go? And who will be our pastor now?"



These were Janci's words.



"What are you talking about, shepherd? Is it another one of your

visions?" exclaimed the young fellow who stood there before him.

Janci rubbed his hands over his eyes and seemed to come down to

earth with a start.



"Oh, is that you, Ferenz? What do you want of me?"



The boy gave his message again, and Janci nodded good-humouredly

and followed him out of the house. But both he and his young

companion were very thoughtful as they plodded along the way. The

boy did not dare to ask any questions, for he knew that the shepherd

was not likely to answer. There was a silent understanding among

the villagers that no one should annoy Janci in any way, for they

stood in a strange awe of him, although he was the most

good-natured mortal under the sun.



While the shepherd and the boy walked toward the inn, the old

doctor and Liska had hurried onward to the rectory. They were met

at the door by the aged housekeeper, who staggered down the path

wringing her hands, unable to give voice to anything but

inarticulate expressions of grief and terror. The rest of the

household and the farm hands were gathered in a frightened group

in the great courtyard of the stately rectory which had once been

a convent building. The physician hurried up the stairs into the

pastor's apartments. These were high sunny and airy rooms with

arched ceilings, deep window seats, great heavy doors and

handsomely ornamented stoves. The simple modern furniture appeared

still more plain and common-place by contrast with the huge spaces

of the building.



In one of the rooms a gendarme was standing beside the window. The

man saluted the physician, then shrugged his shoulders with an

expression of hopelessness. The doctor returned a silent greeting

and passed through into the next apartment. The old man was paler

than usual and his face bore an expression of pain and surprise,

the same expression that showed in the faces of those gathered

downstairs. The room he now entered was large like the others, the

walls handsomely decorated, and every corner of it was flooded with

sunshine. There were two men in this room, the village magistrate

and the notary. Their expression, as they held out their hands

to the doctor, showed that his coming brought great relief. And

there was something else in the room, something that drew the eyes

of all three of the men immediately after their silent greeting.



This was a great pool of blood which lay as a hideous stain on the

otherwise clean yellow-painted floor. The blood must have flowed

from a dreadful wound, from a severed artery even, the doctor

thought, there was such a quantity of it. It had already dried and

darkened, making its terrifying ugliness the more apparent.



"This is the third murder in two years," said the magistrate in a

low voice.



"And the most mysterious of all of them," added the clerk.



"Yes, it is," said the doctor. "And there is not a trace of the

body, you say?--or a clue as to where they might have taken the

dead--or dying man?"



With these words he looked carefully around the room, but there

was no more blood to be seen anywhere. Any spot would have been

clearly visible on the light-coloured floor. There was nothing

else to tell of the horrible crime that had been committed here,

nothing but the great, hideous, brown-red spot in the middle of

the room.



"Have you made a thorough search for the body?" asked the doctor.



The magistrate shook his head. "No, I have done nothing to speak

of yet. We have been waiting for you. There is a gendarme at the

gate; no one can go in or out without being seen."



"Very well, then, let us begin our search now."



The magistrate and his companion turned towards the door of the

room but the doctor motioned them to come back. "I see you do not

know the house as well as I do," he said, and led the way towards

a niche in the side of the wall, which was partially filled by a

high bookcase.



"Ah--that is the entrance of the passage to the church?" asked

the magistrate in surprise.



"Yes, this is it. The door is not locked."



"You mean you believe--"



"That the murderers came in from the church? Why not? It is

quite possible."



"To think of such a thing!" exclaimed the notary with a shake of

his head.



The doctor laughed bitterly. "To those who are planning a murder,

a church is no more than any other place. There is a bolt here as

you see. I will close this bolt now. Then we can leave the room

knowing that no one can enter it without being seen."



The simple furniture of the study, a desk, a sofa, a couple of

chairs and several bookcases, gave no chance of any hiding place

either for the body of the victim or for the murderers. When the

men left the room the magistrate locked the door and put the key

in his own pocket. The gendarme in the neighbouring apartment was

sent down to stand in the courtyard at the entrance to the house.

The sexton, a little hunchback, was ordered to remain in the vestry

at the other end of the passage from the church to the house.



Then the thorough search of the house began. Every room in both

stories, every corner of the attic and the cellar, was looked over

thoroughly. The stable, the barns, the garden and even the well

underwent a close examination. There was no trace of a body

anywhere, not even a trail of blood, nothing which would give the

slightest clue as to how the murderers had entered, how they had

fled, or what they had done with their victim.



The great gate of the courtyard was closed. The men, reinforced by

the farm hands, entered the church, while Liska and the dairy-maids

huddled in the servants' dining-room in a trembling group around

the old housekeeper. The search in the church as well as in the

vestry was equally in vain. There was no trace to be found there

any more than in the house.



Meanwhile, during these hours of anxious seeking, the rumour of

another terrible crime had spread through the village, and a crowd

that grew from minute to minute gathered in front of the closed

gates to the rectory, in front of the church, the closed doors of

which did not open although it was a high feast day. The utter

silence from the steeple, where the bells hung mute, added to the

spreading terror. Finally the doctor came out from the rectory,

accompanied by the magistrate, and announced to the waiting

villagers that their venerable pastor had disappeared under

circumstances which left no doubt that he had met his death at

the hand of a murderer. The peasants listened in shuddering silence,

the men pale-faced, the women sobbing aloud with frightened children

hanging to their skirts. Then at the magistrate's order, the crowd

dispersed slowly, going to their homes, while a messenger set off

to the near-by county seat.



It was a weird, sad Easter Monday. Even nature seemed to feel the

pressure of the brooding horror, for heavy clouds piled up towards

noon and a chill wind blew fitfully from the north, bending the

young corn and the creaking tree-tops, and moaning about the

straw-covered roofs. Then an icy cold rain descended on the village,

sending the children, the only humans still unconscious of the fear

that had come on them all, into the houses to play quietly in the

corner by the hearth.



There was nothing else spoken of wherever two or three met together

throughout the village except this dreadful, unexplainable thing

that had happened in the rectory. The little village inn was full

to overflowing and the hum of voices within was like the noise of

an excited beehive. Everyone had some new explanation, some new

guess, and it was not until the notary arrived, looking even more

important than usual, that silence fell upon the excited throng.

But the expectations aroused by his coming were not fulfilled. The

notary knew no more than the others although he had been one of the

searchers in the rectory. But he was in no haste to disclose his

ignorance, and sat wrapped in a dignified silence until some one

found courage to question him.



"Was there nothing stolen?" he was asked.



"No, nothing as far as we can tell yet. But if it was the gypsies

--as may be likely--they are content with so little that it would

not be noticed."



"Gypsies?" exclaimed one man scornfully. "It doesn't have to be

gypsies, we've got enough tramps and vagabonds of our own. Didn't

they kill the pedlar for the sake of a bag of tobacco, and old

Katiza for a couple of hens?"



"Why do you rake up things that happened twenty years ago?" cried

another over the table. "You'd better tell us rather who killed Red

Betty, and pulled Janos, the smith's farm hand, down into the swamp?"



"Yes, or who cut the bridge supports, when the brook was in flood,

so that two good cows broke through and drowned?"



"Yes, indeed, if we only knew what band of robbers and villains it

is that is ravaging our village."



"And they haven't stopped yet, evidently."



"This is the worst misfortune of all! What will our poor do now

that they have murdered our good pastor, who cared for us all like

a father?"



"He gave all he had to the poor, he kept nothing for himself."



"Yes, indeed, that's how it was. And now we can't even give this

good man Christian burial."



"Shepherd Janci knew this morning early that we were going to have

a new pastor," whispered the landlord in the notary's ear. The

latter looked up astonished. "Who said so?" he asked.



"My boy Ferenz, who went to fetch him about seven o'clock. One of

my cows was sick."



Ferenz was sent for and told his story. The men listened with

great interest, and the smith, a broad-shouldered elderly man,

was particularly eager to hear, as he had always believed in the

shepherd's power of second sight. The tailor, who was more

modern-minded, laughed and made his jokes at this. But the smith

laid one mighty hand on the other's shoulder, almost crushing the

tailor's slight form under its weight, and said gravely: "Friend, do

you be silent in this matter. You've come from other parts and you

do not know of things that have happened here in days gone by. Janci

can do more than take care of his sheep. One day, when my little

girl was playing in the street, he said to me, 'Have a care of

Maruschka, smith!' and three days later the child was dead. The

evening before Red Betty was murdered he saw her in a vision lying

in a coffin in front of her door. He told it to the sexton, whom

he met in the fields; and next morning they found Betty dead. And

there are many more things that I could tell you, but what's the

use; when a man won't believe it's only lost talk to try to make

him. But one thing you should know: when Janci stares ahead of

him without seeing what's in front of him, then the whole village

begins to wonder what's going to happen, for Janci knows far more

than all the rest of us put together."



The smith's grave, deep voice filled the room and the others

listened in a silence that gave assent to his words. He had

scarcely finished speaking, however, when there was a noise of

galloping hoofs and rapidly rolling wagon wheels. A tall brake

drawn by four handsome horses dashed past in a whirlwind.



"It's the Count--the Count and the district judge," said the

landlord in a tone of respect. The notary made a grab at his hat

and umbrella and hurried from the room. "That shows how much they

thought of our pastor," continued the landlord proudly. "For the

Count himself has come and with four horses, too, to get here the

more quickly. His Reverence was a great friend of the Countess."



"They didn't make so much fuss over the pedlar and Betty," murmured

the cobbler, who suffered from a perpetual grouch. But he followed

the others, who paid their scores hastily and went out into the

streets that they might watch from a distance at least what was

going on in the rectory. The landlord bustled about the inn to have

everything in readiness in case the gentlemen should honour him by

taking a meal, and perhaps even lodgings, at his house. At the gate

of the rectory the coachman and the maid Liska stood to receive the

newcomers, just as five o'clock was striking from the steeple.



It should have been still quite light, but it was already dusk, for

the clouds hung heavy. The rain had ceased, but a heavy wind came

up which tore the delicate petals of the blossoms from the fruit

trees and strewed them like snow on the ground beneath. The Count,

who was the head of one of the richest and most aristocratic

families in Hungary, threw off his heavy fur coat and hastened up

the stairs at the top of which his old friend and confidant, the

venerable pastor, usually came to meet him. To-day it was only the

local magistrate who stood there, bowing deeply.



"This is incredible, incredible!" exclaimed the Count.



"It is, indeed, sir," said the man, leading the magnate through the

dining-room into the pastor's study, where, as far as could be seen,

the murder had been committed. They were joined by the district

judge, who had remained behind to give an order sending a carriage

to the nearest railway station. The judge, too, was serious and

deeply shocked, for he also had greatly admired and revered the old

pastor. The stately rectory had been the scene of many a jovial

gathering when the lord of the manor had made it a centre for a day's

hunting with his friends. The bearers of some of the proudest names

in all Hungary had gathered in the high-arched rooms to laugh with

the venerable pastor and to sample the excellent wines in his cellar.

These wines, which the gentlemen themselves would send in as

presents to the master of the rectory, would be carefully preserved

for their own enjoyment. Not a landed proprietor for many leagues

around but knew and loved the old pastor, who had now so strangely

disappeared under such terrifying circumstances.



"Well, we might as well begin our examination," remarked the Count.

"Although if Dr. Orszay's sharp eyes did not find anything, I doubt

very much if we will. You have asked the doctor to come here again,

haven't you?"



"Yes, your Grace! As soon as I saw you coming I sent the sexton to

the asylum." Then the men went in again into the room which had

been the scene of the mysterious crime. The wind rattled the open

window and blew out its white curtains. It was already dark in the

corners of the room, one could see but indistinctly the carvings of

the wainscoting. The light backs of the books, or the gold letters

on the darker bindings, made spots of brightness in the gloom. The

hideous pool of blood in the centre of the floor was still plainly

to be seen.



"Judging by the loss of blood, death must have come quickly."



"There was no struggle, evidently, for everything in the room was

in perfect order when we entered it."



"There is not even a chair misplaced. His Bible is there on the

desk, he may have been preparing for to-day's sermon."



"Yes, that is the case; because see, here are some notes in his

handwriting."



The Count and Judge von Kormendy spoke these sentences at intervals

as they made their examination of the room. The local magistrate

was able to answer one or two simpler questions, but for the most

part he could only shrug his shoulders in helplessness. Nothing had

been seen or heard that was at all unusual during the night in the

rectory. When the old housekeeper was called up she could say

nothing more than this. Indeed, it was almost impossible for the

old woman to say anything, her voice choked with sobs at every

second word. None of the household force had noticed anything

unusual, or could remember anything at all that would throw light

on this mystery.



"Well, then, sir, we might just as well sit down and wait for the

detective's arrival," said the judge.



"You are waiting for some one besides the doctor?" asked the local

magistrate timidly.



"Yes, His Grace telegraphed to Budapest," answered the district

judge, looking at his watch. "And if the train is on time, the man

we are waiting for ought to be here in an hour. You sent the

carriage to the station, didn't you? Is the driver reliable?"



"Yes, sir, he is a dependable man," said the old housekeeper.



Dr. Orszay entered the room just then and the Count introduced him

to the district judge, who was still a stranger to him.



"I fear, Count, that our eyes will serve but little in discovering

the truth of this mystery," said the doctor.



The nobleman nodded. "I agree with you," he replied. "And I have

sent for sharper eyes than either yours or mine."



The doctor looked his question, and the Count continued: "When the

news came to me I telegraphed to Pest for a police detective,

telling them that the case was peculiar and urgent. I received an

answer as I stopped at the station on my way here. This is it:

'Detective Joseph Muller from Vienna in Budapest by chance. Have

sent him to take your case.'"



"Muller?" exclaimed Dr. Orszay. "Can it be the celebrated Muller,

the most famous detective of the Austrian police? That would indeed

be a blessing."



"I hope and believe that it is," said the Count gravely. "I have

heard of this man and we need such a one here that we may find the

source of these many misfortunes which have overwhelmed our peaceful

village for two years past. It is indeed a stroke of good luck that

has led a man of such gifts into our neighbourhood at a time when

he is so greatly needed. I believe personally that it is the same

person or persons who have been the perpetrators of all these

outrages and I intend once for all to put a stop to it, let it cost

what it may."



"If any one can discover the truth it will be Muller," said the

district judge. "It was I who told the Count how fortunate we were

that this man, who is known to the police throughout Austria and far

beyond the borders of our kingdom, should have chanced to be in

Budapest and free to come to us when we called. You and I"--he

turned with a smile to the local magistrate--"you and I can get

away with the usual cases of local brutality hereabouts. But the

cunning that is at the bottom of these crimes is one too many for

us."



The men had taken their places around the great dining-table. The

old housekeeper had crept out again, her terror making her forget

her usual hospitality. And indeed it would not have occurred to the

guests to ask or even to wish for any refreshment. The maid brought

a lamp, which sent its weak rays scarcely beyond the edges of the

big table. The four men sat in silence for some time.



"I suppose it would be useless to ask who has been coming and going

from the rectory the last few days?" began the Count.



"Oh, yes, indeed, sir," said the district judge with a sigh. "For

if this murderer is the same who committed the other crimes he must

live here in or near the village, and therefore must be known to

all and not likely to excite suspicion."



"I beg your pardon, sir," put in the doctor. "There must be at

least two of them. One man alone could not have carried off the

farm hand who was killed to the swamp where his body was found.

Nor could one man alone have taken away the bloody body of the

pastor. Our venerable friend was a man of size and weight, as

you know, and one man alone could not have dragged his body from

he room without leaving an easily seen trail."



The judge blushed, but he nodded in affirmation to the doctor's

words. This thought had not occurred to him before. In fact, the

judge was more notable for his good will and his love of justice

rather than for his keen intelligence. He was as well aware of

this as was any one else, and he was heartily glad that the Count

had sent to the capital for reinforcements.



Some time more passed in deep silence. Each of the men was occupied

with his own thoughts. A sigh broke the silence now and then, and

a slight movement when one or the other drew out his watch or raised

his head to look at the door. Finally, the sound of a carriage

outside was heard. The men sprang up.



The driver's voice was heard, then steps which ascended the stairs

lowly and lightly, audible only because the stillness was so great.



The door opened and a small, slight, smooth-shaven man with a gentle

face and keen grey eyes stood on the threshold. "I am Joseph

Muller," he said with a low, soft voice.



The four men in the room looked at him in astonishment.



"This simple-looking individual is the man that every one is afraid

of?" thought the Count, as he walked forward and held out his hand

to the stranger.



"I sent for you, Mr. Muller," said the magnate, conscious of his

stately size and appearance, as well as of his importance in the

presence of a personage who so little looked what his great fame

might have led one to expect.



"Then you are Count ---- ?" answered Muller gently. "I was in

Budapest, having just finished a difficult case which took me there.

They told me that a mysterious crime had happened in your

neighbourhood, and sent me here to take charge of it. You will

pardon any ignorance I may show as a stranger to this locality.

I will do my best and it may be possible that I can help you."



The Count introduced the other gentlemen in order and they sat down

again at the table.



"And now what is it you want me for, Count?" asked Muller.



"There was a murder committed in this house," answered the Count.



"When?"



"Last night."



"Who is the victim?"



"Our pastor."



"How was he killed?"



"We do not know."



"You are not a physician, then?" asked Muller, turning to Orszay.



"Yes, I am," answered the latter.



"Well?"



"The body is missing," said Orszay, somewhat sharply.



"Missing?" Muller became greatly interested. "Will you please

lead me to the scene of the crime?" he said, rising from his chair.



The others led him into the next room, the magistrate going ahead

with a lamp. The judge called for more lights and the group stood

around the pool of blood on the floor of the study. Muller's arms

were crossed on his breast as he stood looking down at the hideous

spot. There was no terror in his eyes, as in those of the others,

but only a keen attention and a lively interest.



"Who has been in this room since the discovery?" he asked.



The doctor replied that only the servants of the immediate household,

the notary, the magistrate, and himself, then later the Count and

the district judge entered the room.



"You are quite certain that no one else has been in here?"



"No, no one else."



"Will you kindly send for the three servants?" The magistrate left

the room.



"Who else lives in the house?"



"The sexton and the dairymaid."



"And no one else has left the house to-day or has entered it?"



"No one. The main door has been watched all day by a gendarme."



"Is there but one door out of this room?"



"No, there is a small door beside that bookcase."



"Where does it lead to?"



"It leads to a passageway at the end of which there is a stair down

into the vestry."



Muller gave an exclamation of surprise.



"The vestry as well as the church have neither of them been opened

on the side toward the street."



"The church or the vestry, you mean," corrected Muller. "How many

doors have they on the street side?"



"One each."



"The locks on these doors were in good condition?"



"Yes, they were untouched."



"Was there anything stolen from the church?"



"No, nothing that we could see."



"Was the pastor rich?"



"No, he was almost a poor man, for he gave away all that he had."



"But you were his patron, Count."



"I was his friend. He was the confidential adviser of myself and

family."



"This would mean rich presents now and then, would it not?"



"No, that is not the case. Our venerable pastor would take nothing

for himself. He would accept no presents but gifts of money for

his poor."



"Then you do not believe this to have been a murder for the sake

of robbery?"



"No. There was nothing disturbed in any part of the house, no

drawers or cupboards broken open at all."



Muller smiled. "I have heard it said that your romantic Hungarian

bandits will often be satisfied with the small booty they may find

in the pocket or on the person of their victim."



"You are right, Mr. Muller. But that is only when they can find

nothing else."



"Or perhaps if it is a case of revenge.



"It cannot be revenge in this case!"



"The pastor was greatly loved?"



"He was loved and revered."



"By every one?"



"By every one!" the four men answered at once.



Muller was still a while. His eyes were veiled and his face

thoughtful. Finally he raised his head. "There has been nothing

moved or changed in this room?"



"No--neither here nor anywhere else in the house or the church,"

answered the local magistrate.



"That is good. Now I would like to question the servants."



Muller had already started for the door, then he turned back into

the room and pointing toward the second door he asked: "Is that

door locked?"



"Yes," answered the Count. "I found it locked when I examined it

myself a short time ago."



"It was locked on the inside?"



"Yes, locked on the inside."



"Very well. Then we have nothing more to do here for the time

being. Let us go back into the dining-room."



The men returned to the dining-room, Muller last, for he stopped

to lock the door of the study and put the key in his pocket. Then

he began his examination of the servants.



The old housekeeper, who, as usual, was the first to rise in the

household, had also, as usual, rung the bell to waken the other

servants. Then when Liska came downstairs she had sent her up

to the pastor's room. His bedroom was to the right of the

dining-room. Liska had, as usual, knocked on the door exactly at

seven o'clock and continued knocking for some few minutes without

receiving any answer. Slightly alarmed, the girl had gone back

and told the housekeeper that the pastor did not answer.



Then the old woman asked the coachman to go up and see if anything

was the matter with the reverend gentleman. The man returned in

a few moments, pale and trembling in every limb and apparently

struck dumb by fright. He motioned the women to follow him, and

all three crept up the stairs. The coachman led them first to the

pastor's bed, which was untouched, and then to the pool of blood

in his study. The sight of the latter frightened the servants so

much that they did not notice at first that there was no sign of

the pastor himself, whom they now knew must have been murdered.

When they finally came to themselves sufficiently to take some

action, the man hurried off to call the magistrate, and Liska ran

to the asylum to fetch the old doctor; the pastor's intimate friend.

The aged housekeeper, trembling in fear, crept back to her own room

and sat there waiting the return of the others.



This was the story of the early morning as told by the three

servants, who had already given their report in much the same words

to the Count on his arrival and also to the magistrate. There was

no reason to doubt the words of either the old housekeeper or of

Janos, the coachman, who had served for more than twenty years in

the rectory and whose fidelity was known. The girl Liska was

scarcely eighteen, and her round childish face and big eyes dimmed

with tears, corroborated her story. When they had told Muller all

they knew, the detective sat stroking, his chin, and looking

thoughtfully at the floor. Then he raised his head and said, in a

tone of calm friendliness: "Well, good friends, this will do for

to-night. Now, if you will kindly give me a bite to eat and a

glass of some light wine, I'd be very thankful. I have had no

food since early this morning."



The housekeeper and the maid disappeared, and Janos went to the

stable to harness the Count's trap.



The magnate turned to the detective. "I thank you once more that

you have come to us. I appreciate it greatly that a stranger to

our part of the country, like yourself, should give his time and

strength to this problem of our obscure little village."



"There is nothing else calling me, sir," answered Muller. "And the

Budapest police will explain to headquarters at Vienna if I do not

return at once."



"Do you understand our tongue sufficiently to deal with these people

here?"



"Oh, yes; there will be no difficulty about that. I have hunted

criminals in Hungary before. And a case of this kind does not

usually call for disguises in which any accent would betray one."



"It is a strange profession," said the doctor.



"One gets used to it--like everything else," answered Muller, with

a gentle smile. "And now I have to thank you gentlemen for your

confidence in me."



"Which I know you will justify," said the Count.



Muller shrugged his shoulders: "I haven't felt anything yet--but

it will come--there's something in the air."



The Count smiled at his manner of expressing himself, but all four

of the men had already begun to feel sympathy and respect for this

quiet-mannered little person whose words were so few and whose

voice was so gentle. Something in his grey eyes and in the quiet

determination of his manner made them realise that he had won his

fame honestly. With the enthusiasm of his race the Hungarian Count

pressed the detective's hand in a warm grasp as he said: "I know

that we can trust in you. You will avenge the death of my old

friend and of those others who were killed here. The doctor and

the magistrate will tell you about them to-morrow. We two will go

home now. Telegraph us as soon as anything has happened. Every

one in the village will be ready to help you and of course you can

call on me for funds. Here is something to begin on." With these

words the Count laid a silk purse full of gold pieces on the table.

One more pressure of the hand and he was gone. The other men also

left the room, following the Count's lead in a cordial farewell of

the detective. They also shared the nobleman's feeling that now

indeed, with this man to help them, could the cloud of horror that

had hung over the village for two years, and had culminated in

the present catastrophe, be lifted.



The excitement of the Count's departure had died away and the steps

of the other men on their way to the village had faded in the

distance. There was nothing now to be heard but the rustling of

the leaves and the creaking of the boughs as the trees bent before

the onrush of the wind. Muller stood alone, with folded arms, in

the middle of the large room, letting his sharp eyes wander about

the circle of light thrown by the lamps. He was glad to be alone

--for only when he was alone could his brain do its best work. He

took up one of the lamps and opened the door to the room in which,

as far as could be known, the murder had been committed. He

walked in carefully and, setting the lamp on the desk, examined the

articles lying about on it. There was nothing of importance to be

found there. An open Bible and a sheet of paper with notes for the

day's sermon lay on top of the desk. In the drawers, none of which

were locked, were official papers, books, manuscripts of former

sermons, and a few unimportant personal notes.



The flame of the lamp flickered in the breeze that came from the

open window. But Muller did not close the casement. He wanted to

leave everything just as he had found it until daylight. When he

saw that it was impossible to leave the lamp there he took it up

again and left the room.



"What is the use of being impatient?" he said to himself. "If I

move about in this poor light I will be sure to ruin some possible

clue. For there must be some clue left here. It is impossible for

even the most practiced criminal not to leave some trace of his

presence."



The detective returned to the dining-room, locking the study door

carefully behind him. The maid and the coachman returned, bringing

in an abundant supper, and Muller sat down to do justice to the many

good things on the tray. When the maid returned to take away the

dishes she inquired whether she should put the guest chamber in

order for the detective. He told her not to go to any trouble for

his sake, that he would sleep in the bed in the neighbouring room.



"You going to sleep in there?" said the girl, horrified.



"Yes, my child, and I think I will sleep well to-night. I feel

very tired." Liska carried the things out, shaking her head in

surprise at this thin little man who did not seem to know what it

was to be afraid. Half an hour later the rectory was in darkness.

Before he retired, Muller had made a careful examination of the

pastor's bedroom. Nothing was disturbed anywhere, and it was

evident that the priest had not made any preparations for the

night, but was still at work at his desk in the study when death

overtook him. When he came to this conclusion, the detective went

to bed and soon fell asleep.



In his little hut near the asylum gates, shepherd Janci slept as

sound as usual. But he was dreaming and he spoke in his sleep.

There was no one to hear him, for his faithful Margit was snoring

loudly. Snatches of sentences and broken words came from Janci's

lips: "The hand--the big hand--I see it--at his throat--the

face--the yellow face--it laughs--"



Next morning the children on their way to school crept past the

rectory with wide eyes and open mouths. And the grown people

spoke in lower tones when their work led them past the handsome

old house. It had once been their pride, but now it was a place

of horror to them. The old housekeeper had succumbed to her

fright and was very ill. Liska went about her work silently,

and the farm servants walked more heavily and chattered less than

they had before. The hump-backed sexton, who had not been allowed

to enter the church and therefore had nothing to do, made an early

start for the inn, where he spent most of the day telling what

little he knew to the many who made an excuse to follow him there.



The only calm and undisturbed person in the rectory household was

Muller. He had made a thorough examination of the entire scene of

the murder, but had not found anything at all. Of one thing alone

was he certain: the murderer had come through the hidden passageway

from the church. There were two reasons to believe this, one of

which might possibly not be sufficient, but the other was conclusive.



The heavy armchair before the desk, the chair on which the pastor

was presumably sitting when the murderer entered, was half turned

around, turned in just such a way as it would have been had the man

who was sitting there suddenly sprung up in excitement or surprise.

The chair was pushed back a step from the desk and turned towards

the entrance to the passageway. Those who had been in the room

during the day had reported that they had not touched any one of

the articles of furniture, therefore the position of the chair was

the same that had been given it by the man who had sat in it, by

the murdered pastor himself.



Of course there was always the possibility that some one had moved

the chair without realising it. This clue, therefore, could not be

looked upon as an absolutely certain one had it stood alone. But

there was other evidence far more important. The great pool of

blood was just half-way between the door of the passage and the

armchair. It was here, therefore, that the attack had taken place.

The pastor could not have turned in this direction in the hope of

flight, for there was nothing here to give him shelter, no weapon

that he could grasp, not even a cane. He must have turned in this

direction to meet and greet the invader who had entered his room in

this unusual manner. Turned to meet him as a brave man would, with

no other weapon than the sacredness of his calling and his age.



But this had not been enough to protect the venerable priest. The

murderer must have made his thrust at once and his victim had sunk

down dying on the floor of the room in which he had spent so many

hours of quiet study, in which he had brought comfort and given

advice to so many anxious hearts; for dying he must have been--it

would be impossible for a man to lose so much blood and live.



"The struggle," thought the detective, "but was there a struggle?"

He looked about the room again, but could see nothing that showed

disorder anywhere in its immaculate neatness. No, there could have

been no struggle. It must have been a quick knife thrust and death

at once. "Not a shot?" No, a shot would have been heard by the

night watchman walking the streets near the church. The night was

quiet, the window open. Some one in the village would have heard

the noise of a shot. And it was not likely that the old housekeeper

who slept in the room immediately below, slept the light sleep of

the aged would have failed to have heard the firing of a pistol.



Muller took a chair and sat down directly in front of the pool of

blood, looking at it carefully. Suddenly he bowed his head deeper.

He had caught sight of a fine thread of the red fluid which had

been drawn out for about a foot or two in the direction towards

the door to the dining-room. What did that mean? Did it mean that

the murderer went out through that door, dragging something after

him that made this delicate line? Muller bent down still deeper.

The sun shone brightly on the floor, sending its clear rays

obliquely through the window. The sharp eyes which now covered

every inch of the yellow-painted floor discovered something else.

They discovered that this red thread curved slightly and had a

continuation in a fine scratch in the paint of the floor. Muller

followed up this scratch and it led him over towards the window and

then back again in wide curves, then out again under the desk and

finally, growing weaker and weaker, it came back to the neighbourhood

of the pool of blood, but on the opposite side of it. Muller got

down on his hands and knees to follow up the scratch. He did not

notice the discomfort of his position, his eyes shone in excitement

and a deep flush glowed in his cheeks. Also, he began to whistle

softly.



Joseph Muller, the bloodhound of the Austrian police, had found a

clue, a clue that soon would bring him to the trail he was seeking.

He did not know yet what he could do with his clue. But this much

he knew; sooner or later this scratch in the floor would lead him

to the murderer. The trail might be long and devious; but he would

follow it and at its end would be success. He knew that this scratch

had been made after the murder was committed; this was proved by the

blood that marked its beginning. And it could not have been made by

any of those who entered the room during the day because by that

time the blood had dried. This strange streak in the floor, with

its weird curves and spirals, could have been made only by the

murderer. But how? With what instrument? There was the riddle

which must be solved.



And now Muller, making another careful examination of the floor,

found something else. It was something that might be utterly

unimportant or might be of great value. It was a tiny bit of

hardened lacquer which he found on the floor beside one of the legs

of the desk. It was rounded out, with sharp edges, and coloured

grey with a tiny zigzag of yellow on its surface. Muller lifted it

carefully and looked at it keenly. This tiny bit of lacquer had

evidently been knocked off from some convex object, but it was

impossible to tell at the moment just what sort of an object it

might have been. There are so many different things which are

customarily covered with lacquer. However, further examination

brought him down to a narrower range of subjects. For on the inside

of the lacquer he found a shred of reddish wood fibre. It must have

been a wooden object, therefore, from which the lacquer came, and

the wood had been of reddish tinge.



Muller pondered the matter for a little while longer. Then he

placed his discovery carefully in the pastor's emptied tobacco-box,

and dropped the box in his own pocket. He closed the window and the

door to the dining-room, lit a lamp, and entered the passageway

leading to the vestry. It was a short passageway, scarcely more

than a dozen paces long.



The walls were whitewashed, the floor tiled and the entire passage

shone in neatness. Muller held the light of his lamp to every inch

of it, but there was nothing to show that the criminal had gone

through here with the body of his victim.



"The criminal"--Muller still thought of only one. His long

experience had taught him that the most intricate crimes were

usually committed by one man only. The strength necessary for such

a crime as this did not deceive him either. He knew that in

extraordinary moments extraordinary strength will come to the one

who needs it.



He now passed down the steps leading into the vestry. There was no

trace of any kind here either. The door into the vestry was not

locked. It was seldom locked, they had told him, for the vestry

itself was closed by a huge carved portal with a heavy ornamented

iron lock that could be opened only with the greatest noise and

trouble. This door was locked and closed as it had been since

yesterday morning. Everything in the vestry was in perfect order;

the priest's garments and the censers all in their places. Muller

assured himself of this before he left the little room. He then

opened the glass door that led down by a few steps into the church.



It was a beautiful old church, and it was a rich church also. It

was built in the older Gothic style, and its heavy, broad-arched

walls, its massive columns would have made it look cold and bare

had not handsome tapestries, the gift of the lady of the manor,

covered the walls. Fine old pictures hung here and there above the

altars, and handsome stained glass windows broke the light that fell

into the high vaulted interior. There were three great altars in

the church, all of them richly decorated. The main altar stood

isolated in the choir. In the open space behind it was the

entrance to the crypt, now veiled in a mysterious twilight. Heavy

silver candlesticks, three on a side, stood on the altar. The pale

gold of the tabernacle door gleamed between them.



Muller walked through the silent church, in which even his light

steps resounded uncannily. He looked into each of the pews, into

the confessionals, he walked around all the columns, he climbed up

into the pulpit, he did everything that the others had done before

him yesterday. And as with them, he found nothing that would

indicate that the murderer had spent any time in the church.

Finally he turned back once more to the main altar on his way out.

But he did not leave the church as he intended. His last look at

the altar had showed him something that attracted his attention and

he walked up the three steps to examine it more closely.



What he had seen was something unusual about one of the silver

candlesticks. These candlesticks had three feet, and five of them

were placed in such a way that the two front feet were turned toward

the spectator. But on the end candlestick nearest Muller the single

foot projected out to the front of the altar. This candlestick

therefore had been set down hastily, not placed carefully in the

order of things as were the others.



And not only this. The heavy wax candle which was in the candlestick

was burned down about a finger's breadth more than the others, for

these were all exactly of a height. Muller bent still nearer to

the candlestick, but he saw that the dim light in the church was not

sufficient. He went to one of the smaller side altars, took a candle

from there, lit it with one of the matches that he found in his own

pocket and returned with the burning candle to the main altar. The

steps leading up to this altar were covered by a large rug with a

white ground and a pattern of flowers. Looking carefully at it the

detective saw a tiny brown spot, the mark of a burn, upon one of the

white surfaces. Beside it lay a half used match.



Walking around this carefully, Muller approached the candlestick

that interested him and holding up his light he examined every inch

of its surface. He found what he was looking for. There were dark

red spots between the rough edges of the silver ornamentation.



"Then the body is somewhere around here," thought the detective and

came down from the steps, still holding the burning candle.



He walked slowly to the back of the altar. There was a little table

there such as held the sacred dishes for the communion service, and

the little carpet-covered steps which the sexton put out for the

pastor when he took the monstrance from the high-built tabernacle.

That was all that was to be seen in the dark corner behind the altar.

Holding his candle close to the floor Muller discovered an iron ring

fastened to one of the big stone flags. This must be the entrance

to the crypt.



Muller tried to raise the flag and was astonished to find how easily

it came up. It was a square of reddish marble, the same with which

the entire floor of the church was tiled. This flag was very thin

and could easily be raised and placed back against the wall. Muller

took up his candle, too greatly excited to stop to get a stick for

it. He felt assured that now he would soon be able to solve at

least a part of the mystery. He climbed down the steps carefully

and found that they led into the crypt as he supposed. They were

kept spotlessly clean, as was the entire crypt as far as he could

see it by the light of his flickering candle. He was not surprised

to discover that the air was perfectly pure here. There must be

windows or ventilators somewhere, this he knew from the way his

candle behaved.



The ancient vault had a high arched ceiling and heavy massive

pillars. It was a subterranean repetition of the church above.

There had evidently been a convent attached to this church at one

time; for here stood a row of simple wooden coffins all exactly

alike, bearing each one upon its lid a roughly painted cross

surrounded by a wreath. Thus were buried the monks of days long past.



Muller walked slowly through the rows of coffins looking eagerly to

each side. Suddenly he stopped and stood still. His hand did not

tremble but his thin face was pale--pale as that face which looked

up at him out of one of the coffins. The lid of the coffin stood

up against the wall and Muller saw that there were several other

empty ones further on, waiting for their silent occupants.



The body in the open coffin before which Muller stood was the body

of the man who had been missing since the day previous. He lay

there quite peacefully, his hands crossed over his breast, his eyes

closed, a line of pain about his lips. In the crossed fingers was

a little bunch of dark yellow roses. At the first glance one might

almost have thought that loving hands had laid the old pastor in his

coffin. But the red stain on the white cloth about his throat, and

the bloody disorder of his snow-white hair contrasted sadly with the

look of peace on the dead face. Under his head was a white silk

cushion, one of the cushions from the altar.



Muller stood looking down for some time at this poor victim of a

strange crime, then he turned to go.



He wanted to know one thing more: how the murderer had left the

crypt. The flame of his candle told him, for it nearly went out

in a gust of wind that came down the opening right above him. This

was a window about three or four feet from the floor, protected by

rusty iron bars which had been sawed through, leaving the opening

free. It was a small window, but it was large enough to allow a man

of much greater size than Muller to pass through it. The detective

blew out his candle and climbed up onto the window sill. He found

himself outside, in a corner of the churchyard. A thicket of heavy

bushes grown up over neglected graves completely hid the opening

through which he had come. There were thorns on these bushes and

also a few scattered roses, dark yellow roses.



Muller walked thoughtfully through the churchyard. The sexton sat

huddled in an unhappy heap at the gate. He looked up in alarm as he

saw the detective walking towards him. Something in the stranger's

face told the little hunchback that he had made a discovery. The

sexton sprang up, his lips did not dare utter the question that his

eyes asked.



"I have found him," said the detective gravely.



The hunchback sexton staggered, then recovered himself, and hurried

away to fetch the magistrate and the doctor.



An hour later the murdered pastor lay in state in the chief apartment

of his home, surrounded by burning candles and high-heaped masses of

flowers. But he still lay in the simple convent coffin and the little

bunch of roses which his murderer had placed between his stiffening

fingers had not been touched.



Two days later the pastor was buried. The Count and his family led

the train of numerous mourners and among the last was Muller.



A day or two after the funeral the detective sauntered slowly through

the main street of the village. He was not in a very good humour,

his answer to the greeting of those who passed him was short. The

children avoided him, for with the keenness of their kind they

recognised the fact that this usually gentle little man was not in

possession of his habitual calm temper. One group of boys, playing

with a top, did not notice his coming and Muller stopped behind

them to look on. Suddenly a sharp whistle was heard and the boys

looked up from their play, surprised at seeing the stranger behind

them. His eyes were gleaming, and his cheeks were flushed, and a

few bars of a merry tune came in a keen whistle from his lips as

he watched the spirals made by the spinning top.



Before the boys could stop their play the detective had left the

group and hastened onward to the little shop. He left it again

in eager haste after having made his purchase, and hurried back to

the rectory. The shop-keeper stood in the doorway looking in

surprise at this grown man who came to buy a top. And at home in

the rectory the old housekeeper listened in equal surprise to the

humming noise over her head. She thought at first it might be a

bee that had got in somehow. Then she realised that it was not

quite the same noise, and having already concluded that it was of

no use to be surprised at anything this strange guest might do, she

continued reading her scriptures.



Upstairs in the pastor's study, Muller sat in the armchair

attentively watching the gyrations of a spinning top. The little

toy, started at a certain point, drew a line exactly parallel to

the scratch on the floor that had excited his thoughts and absorbed

them day and night.



"It was a top--a top" repeated the detective to himself again and

again. "I don't see why I didn't think of that right away. Why,

of course, nothing else could have drawn such a perfect curve around

the room, unhindered by the legs of the desk. Only I don't see how

a toy like that could have any connection with this cruel and

purposeless murder. Why, only a fool--or a madman--"



Muller sprang up from his chair and again a sharp shrill whistle

came from his lips. "A madman!--" he repeated, beating his own

forehead. "It could only have been a madman who committed this

murder! And the pastor was not the first, there were two other

murders here within a comparatively short time. I think I will take

advantage of Dr. Orszay's invitation."



Half an hour later Muller and the doctor sat together in a

summer-house, from the windows of which one could see the park

surrounding the asylum to almost its entire extent. The park was

arranged with due regard to its purpose. The eye could sweep

through it unhindered. There were no bushes except immediately

along the high wall. Otherwise there were beautiful lawns, flower

beds and groups of fine old trees with tall trunks.



As would be natural in visiting such a place Muller had induced the

doctor to talk about his patients. Dr. Orszay was an excellent

talker and possessed the power of painting a personality for his

listeners. He was pleased and flattered by the evident interest

with which the detective listened to his remarks.



"Then your patients are all quite harmless?" asked Muller

thoughtfully, when the doctor came to a pause.



"Yes, all quite harmless. Of course, there is the man who strangely

enough considers himself the reincarnation of the famous French

murderer, the goldsmith Cardillac, who, as you remember, kept all

Paris in a fervour of excitement by his crimes during the reign of

Louis XIV. But in spite of his weird mania this man is the most

good-natured of any. He has been shut up in his room for several

days now. He was a mechanician by trade, living in Budapest, and

an unsuccessful invention turned his mind."



"Is he a large, powerful man?" asked Muller.



Dr. Orszay looked a bit surprised. "Why do you ask that? He does

happen to be a large man of considerable strength, but in spite of

it I have no fear of him. I have an attendant who is invaluable to

me, a man of such strength that even the fiercest of them cannot

overcome him, and yet with a mind and a personal magnetism which

they cannot resist. He can always master our patients mentally and

physically--most of them are afraid of him and they know that they

must do as he says. There is something in his very glance which

has the power to paralyse even healthy nerves, for it shows the

strength of will possessed by this man."



"And what is the name of this invaluable attendant?" asked Muller

with a strange smile which the doctor took to be slightly ironical.



"Gyuri Kovacz. You are amused at my enthusiasm? But consider my

position here. I am an old man and have never been a strong man.

At my age I would not have strength enough to force that little

woman there--she thinks herself possessed and is quite cranky at

times--to go to her own room when she doesn't want to. And do you

see that man over there in the blue blouse? He is an excellent

gardener but he believes himself to be Napoleon, and when he has

his acute attacks I would be helpless to control him were it not

for Gyuri."



"And you are not afraid of Cardillac?" interrupted Muller.



"Not in the least. He is as good-natured as a child and as

confiding. I can let him walk around here as much as he likes. If

it were not for the absurd nonsense that he talks when he has one

of his attacks, and which frightens those who do not understand him,

I could let him go free altogether."



"Then you never let him leave the asylum grounds?



"Oh, yes. I take him out with me very frequently. He is a man of

considerable education and a very clever talker. It is quite a

pleasure to be with him. That was the opinion of my poor friend

also, my poor murdered friend."



"The pastor?"



"The pastor. He often invited Cardillac to come to the rectory

with me."



"Indeed. Then Cardillac knew the inside of the rectory?"



"Yes. The pastor used to lend him books and let him choose them

himself from the library shelves. The people in the village are

very kind to my poor patients here. I have long since had the

habit of taking some of the quieter ones with me down into the

village and letting the people become acquainted with them. It is

good for both parties. It gives the patients some little diversion,

and it takes away the worst of the senseless fear these peasants

had at first of the asylum and its inmates. Cardillac in particular

is always welcome when he comes, for he brings the children all

sorts of toys that he makes in his cell."



The detective had listened attentively and once his eyes flashed

and his lips shut tight as if to keep in the betraying whistle.

Then he asked calmly: "But the patients are only allowed to go out

when you accompany them, I suppose?"



"Oh, no; the attendants take them out sometimes. I prefer, however,

to let them go only with Gyuri, for I can depend upon him more than

upon any of the others."



"Then he and Cardillac have been out together occasionally?"



"Oh, yes, quite frequently. But--pardon me--this is almost like

a cross-examination."



"I beg your pardon, doctor, it's a bad habit of mine. One gets so

accustomed to it in my profession."



"What is it you want?" asked Doctor Orszay, turning to a

fine-looking young man of superb build, who entered just then and

stood by the door.



"I just wanted to announce, sir, that No. 302 is quiet again!



"302 is Cardillac himself, Mr. Muller, or to give him his right

name, Lajos Varna," explained the doctor turning to his guest. "He

is the 302nd patient who has been received here in these twenty

years. Then Cardillac is quiet again?" he asked, looking up at the

young giant. "I am glad of that. You can announce our visit to

him. This gentleman wants to inspect the asylum."



Muller realised that this was the attendant Gyuri, and he looked at

him attentively. He was soon clear in his own mind that this

remarkably handsome man did not please him, in fact awoke in him a

feeling of repulsion. The attendant's quiet, almost cat-like

movements were in strange contrast to the massivity of his superb

frame, and his large round eyes, shaped for open, honest glances,

were shifty and cunning. They seemed to be asking "Are you trying

to discover anything about me?" coupled with a threat. "For your own

sake you had better not do it."



When the young man had left the room Muller rose hastily and walked

up and down several times. His face was flushed and his lips tight

set. Suddenly he exclaimed: "I do not like this Gyuri."



Dr. Orszay looked up astonished. "There are many others who do not

like him--most of his fellow-warders for instance, and all of the

patients. I think there must be something in the contrast of such

quiet movements with such a big body that gets on people's nerves.

But consider, Mr. Muller, that the man's work would naturally make

him a little different from other people. I have known Gyuri for

five years as a faithful and unassuming servant, always willing and

ready for any duty, however difficult or dangerous. He has but one

fault--if I may call it such--that is that he has a mistress who

is known to be mercenary and hard-hearted. She lives in a

neighbouring village."



"For five years, you say? And how long has Cardillac been here?"



"Cardillac? He has been here for almost three years."



"For almost thre





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