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<html>
    <h1>
      THE CASE OF THE POCKET DIARY FOUND IN THE SNOW
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      Contents
    </h3>
    <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto">
      <tr>
        <td>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION TO JOE MULLER </a>
          </p>
          <br />
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>THE CASE OF THE POCKET DIARY FOUND IN
            THE SNOW</b> </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER ONE. THE DISCOVERY IN THE SNOW </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER TWO. THE STORY OF THE NOTEBOOK </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER THREE. THE LONELY COTTAGE </a>
          </p>
        </td>
      </tr>
    </table>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      INTRODUCTION TO JOE MULLER
    </h2>
    <p>
      Joseph Muller, Secret Service detective of the Imperial Austrian police,
      is one of the great experts in his profession. In personality he differs
      greatly from other famous detectives. He has neither the impressive
      authority of Sherlock Holmes, nor the keen brilliancy of Monsieur Lecoq.
      Muller is a small, slight, plain-looking man, of indefinite age, and of
      much humbleness of mien. A naturally retiring, modest disposition, and two
      external causes are the reasons for Muller's humbleness of manner, which
      is his chief characteristic. One cause is the fact that in early youth a
      miscarriage of justice gave him several years in prison, an experience
      which cast a stigma on his name and which made it impossible for him, for
      many years after, to obtain honest employment. But the world is richer,
      and safer, by Muller's early misfortune. For it was this experience which
      threw him back on his own peculiar talents for a livelihood, and drove him
      into the police force. Had he been able to enter any other profession, his
      genius might have been stunted to a mere pastime, instead of being, as
      now, utilised for the public good.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, the red tape and bureaucratic etiquette which attaches to every
      governmental department, puts the secret service men of the Imperial
      police on a par with the lower ranks of the subordinates. Muller's
      official rank is scarcely much higher than that of a policeman, although
      kings and councillors consult him and the Police Department realises to
      the full what a treasure it has in him. But official red tape, and his
      early misfortune... prevent the giving of any higher official standing to
      even such a genius. Born and bred to such conditions, Muller understands
      them, and his natural modesty of disposition asks for no outward honours,
      asks for nothing but an income sufficient for his simple needs, and for
      aid and opportunity to occupy himself in the way he most enjoys.
    </p>
    <p>
      Joseph Muller's character is a strange mixture. The kindest-hearted man in
      the world, he is a human bloodhound when once the lure of the trail has
      caught him. He scarcely eats or sleeps when the chase is on, he does not
      seem to know human weakness nor fatigue, in spite of his frail body. Once
      put on a case his mind delves and delves until it finds a clue, then
      something awakes within him, a spirit akin to that which holds the
      bloodhound nose to trail, and he will accomplish the apparently
      impossible, he will track down his victim when the entire machinery of a
      great police department seems helpless to discover anything. The high
      chiefs and commissioners grant a condescending permission when Muller
      asks, "May I do this? ... or may I handle this case this way?" both
      parties knowing all the while that it is a farce, and that the department
      waits helpless until this humble little man saves its honour by solving
      some problem before which its intricate machinery has stood dazed and
      puzzled.
    </p>
    <p>
      This call of the trail is something that is stronger than anything else in
      Muller's mentality, and now and then it brings him into conflict with the
      department,... or with his own better nature. Sometimes his unerring
      instinct discovers secrets in high places, secrets which the Police
      Department is bidden to hush up and leave untouched. Muller is then taken
      off the case, and left idle for a while if he persists in his opinion as
      to the true facts. And at other times, Muller's own warm heart gets him
      into trouble. He will track down his victim, driven by the power in his
      soul which is stronger than all volition; but when he has this victim in
      the net, he will sometimes discover him to be a much finer, better man
      than the other individual, whose wrong at this particular criminal's hand
      set in motion the machinery of justice. Several times that has happened to
      Muller, and each time his heart got the better of his professional
      instincts, of his practical common-sense, too, perhaps,... at least as far
      as his own advancement was concerned, and he warned the victim, defeating
      his own work. This peculiarity of Muller's character caused his undoing at
      last, his official undoing that is, and compelled his retirement from the
      force. But his advice is often sought unofficially by the Department, and
      to those who know, Muller's hand can be seen in the unravelling of many a
      famous case.
    </p>
    <p>
      The following stories are but a few of the many interesting cases that
      have come within the experience of this great detective. But they give a
      fair portrayal of Muller's peculiar method of working, his looking on
      himself as merely an humble member of the Department, and the comedy of
      his acting under "official orders" when the Department is in reality
      following out his directions.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h1>
      THE CASE OF THE POCKET DIARY FOUND IN THE SNOW
    </h1>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER ONE. THE DISCOVERY IN THE SNOW
    </h2>
    <p>
      A quiet winter evening had sunk down upon the great city. The clock in the
      old clumsy church steeple of the factory district had not yet struck
      eight, when the side door of one of the large buildings opened and a man
      came out into the silent street.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Ludwig Amster, one of the working-men in the factory, starting on
      his homeward way. It was not a pleasant road, this street along the edge
      of the city. The town showed itself from its most disagreeable side here,
      with malodorous factories, rickety tenements, untidy open stretches and
      dumping grounds offensive both to eye and nostril.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even by day the street that Amster took was empty; by night it was
      absolutely quiet and dark, as dark as were the thoughts of the solitary
      man. He walked along, brooding over his troubles. Scarcely an hour before
      he had been discharged from the factory because of his refusal to submit
      to the injustice of his foreman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The yellow light of the few lanterns show nothing but high board walls and
      snow drifts, stone heaps, and now and then the remains of a neglected
      garden. Here and there a stunted tree or a wild shrub bent their twigs
      under the white burden which the winter had laid upon them. Ludwig Amster,
      who had walked this street for several years, knew his path so well that
      he could take it blindfolded. The darkness did not worry him, but he
      walked somewhat more slowly than usual, for he knew that under the thin
      covering of fresh-fallen snow there lay the ice of the night before. He
      walked carefully, watching for the slippery places.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been walking about half an hour, perhaps, when he came to a cross
      street. Here he noticed the tracks of a wagon, the trace still quite
      fresh, as the slowly falling flakes did not yet cover it. The tracks led
      out towards the north, out on to the hilly, open fields.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amster was somewhat astonished. It was very seldom that a carriage came
      into this neighbourhood, and yet these narrow wheel-tracks could have been
      made only by an equipage of that character. The heavy trucks which passed
      these roads occasionally had much wider wheels. But Amster was to find
      still more to astonish him.
    </p>
    <p>
      In one corner near the cross-roads stood a solitary lamp-post. The light
      of the lamp fell sharply on the snow, on the wagon tracks, and&mdash;on
      something else besides.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amster halted, bent down to look at it, and shook his head as if in doubt.
    </p>
    <p>
      A number of small pieces of glass gleamed up at him and between them, like
      tiny roses, red drops of blood shone on the white snow. All this was a few
      steps to one side of the wagon tracks.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What can have happened here&mdash;here in this weird spot, where a cry
      for help would never be heard? where there would be no one to bring help?"
    </p>
    <p>
      So Amster asked himself, but his discovery gave him no answer. His
      curiosity was aroused, however, and he wished to know more. He followed up
      the tracks and saw that the drops of blood led further on, although there
      was no more glass. The drops could still be seen for a yard further,
      reaching out almost to the board fence that edged the sidewalk. Through
      the broken planks of this fence the rough bare twigs of a thorn bush
      stretched their brown fingers. On the upper side of the few scattered
      leaves there was snow, and blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amster's wide serious eyes soon found something else. Beside the bush
      there lay a tiny package. He lifted it up. It was a small, light, square
      package, wrapped in ordinary brown paper. Where the paper came together it
      was fastened by two little lumps of black bread, which were still moist.
      He turned the package over and shook his head again. On the other side was
      written, in pencil, the lettering uncertain, as if scribbled in great
      haste and in agitation, the sentence, "Please take this to the nearest
      police station."
    </p>
    <p>
      The words were like a cry for help, frozen on to the ugly paper. Amster
      shivered; he had a feeling that this was a matter of life and death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wagon tracks in the lonely street, the broken pieces of glass and the
      drops of blood, showing that some occupant of the vehicle had broken the
      window, in the hope of escape, perhaps, or to throw out the package which
      should bring assistance&mdash;all these facts grouped themselves together
      in the brain of the intelligent working-man to form some terrible tragedy
      where his assistance, if given at once, might be of great use. He had a
      warm heart besides, a heart that reached out to this unknown who was in
      distress, and who threw out the call for help which had fallen into his
      hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      He waited no longer to ponder over the matter, but started off at a full
      run for the nearest police station. He rushed into the room and told his
      story breathlessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      They took him into the next room, the office of the commissioner for the
      day. The official in charge, who had been engaged in earnest conversation
      with a small, frail-looking, middle-aged man, turned to Amster with a
      question as to what brought him there.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I found this package in the snow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let me see it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Amster laid it on the table. The older man looked at it, and as the
      commissioner was about to open it, he handed him a paper-knife with the
      words: "You had better cut it open, sir."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is best not to injure the seals that fasten a package."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Just as you say, Muller," answered the young commissioner, smiling. He
      was still very young to hold such an office, but then he was the son of a
      Cabinet Minister, and family connections had obtained this responsible
      position for him so soon. Kurt von Mayringen was his name, and he was a
      very good-looking young man, apparently a very good-natured young man
      also, for he took this advice from a subordinate with a most charming
      smile. He knew, however, that this quiet, pale-faced little man in the
      shabby clothes was greater than he, and that it was mere accident of birth
      that put him, Kurt von Mayringen, instead of Joseph Muller, in the
      position of superior.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young commissioner had had most careful advice from headquarters as to
      Muller, and he treated the secret service detective, who was one of the
      most expert and best known men in the profession, with the greatest
      deference, for he knew that anything Muller might say could be only of
      value to him with his very slight knowledge of his business. He took the
      knife, therefore, and carefully cut open the paper, taking out a tiny
      little notebook, on the outer side of which a handsome monogram gleamed up
      at him in golden letters.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A woman made this package," said Muller, who had been looking at the
      covering very carefully; "a blond woman."
    </p>
    <p>
      The other two looked at him in astonishment. He showed them a single blond
      hair which had been in one of the bread seals.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How I was murdered." Those were the words that Commissioner von Mayringen
      read aloud after he had hastily turned the first few pages of the
      notebook, and had come to a place where the writing was heavily
      underscored.
    </p>
    <p>
      The commissioner and Amster were much astonished at these words, but the
      detective still gazed quietly at the seals of the wrapping.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This heading reads like insanity," said the commissioner. Muller shrugged
      his shoulders, then turned to Amster. "Where did you find the package?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "In Garden street."
    </p>
    <p>
      "When?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "About twenty minutes ago."
    </p>
    <p>
      Amster gave a short and lucid account of his discovery. His intelligent
      face and well-chosen words showed that he had observation and the power to
      describe correctly what he had observed. His honest eyes inspired
      confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where could they have been taking the woman?" asked the detective, more
      of himself than of the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      The commissioner searched hastily through the notebook for a signature,
      but without success. "Why do you think it is a woman? This writing looks
      more like a man's hand to me. The letters are so heavy and&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is only because they are written with broad pen," interrupted
      Muller, showing him the writing on the package; "here is the same hand,
      but it is written with a fine hard pencil, and you can see distinctly that
      this is a woman's handwriting. And besides, the skin on a man's thumb does
      not show the fine markings that you can see here on these bits of bread
      that have been used for seals."
    </p>
    <p>
      The commissioner rose from his seat. "You may be right, Muller. We will
      take for granted, then, that there is a woman in trouble. It remains to be
      seen whether she is insane or not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, that remains to be seen," said Muller dryly, as he reached for his
      overcoat.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are going before you read what is in the notebook?" asked
      Commissioner von Mayringen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller nodded. "I want to see the wagon tracks before they are lost; it
      may help me to discover something else. You can read the book and make any
      arrangements you find necessary after that."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller was already wrapped in his overcoat. "Is it snowing now?" He turned
      to Arnster.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Some flakes were falling as I came here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All right. Come with me and show me the way." Muller nodded carelessly to
      his superior officer, his mind evidently already engrossed in thoughts of
      the interesting case, and hurried out with Amster. The commissioner was
      quite satisfied with the state of affairs. He knew the case was in safe
      hands. He seated himself at his desk again and began to read the little
      book which had come into his hands so strangely. His eyes ran more and
      more rapidly over the closely written pages, as his interest grew and
      grew.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, half an hour later, he had finished the reading, he paced restlessly
      up and down the room, trying to bring order into the thoughts that rushed
      through his brain. And one thought came again and again, and would not be
      denied in spite of many improbabilities, and many strange things with
      which the book was full; in spite, also, of the varying, uncertain
      handwriting and style of the message. This one thought was, "This woman is
      not insane."
    </p>
    <p>
      While the young official was pondering over the problem, Muller entered as
      quietly as ever, bowed, put his hat and cane in their places, and shook
      the snow off his clothing. He was evidently pleased about something. Kurt
      von Mayringen did not notice his entrance. He was again at the desk with
      the open book before him, staring at the mysterious words, "How I was
      murdered."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is a woman, a lady of position. And if she is mad, then her madness
      certainly has method." Muller said these words in his usual quiet way,
      almost indifferently. The young commissioner started up and snatched for
      the fine white handkerchief which the detective handed him. A strong sweet
      perfume filled the room. "It is hers?" he murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is hers," said Muller. "At least we can take that much for granted,
      for the handkerchief bears the same monogram, A. L., which is on the
      notebook."
    </p>
    <p>
      Commissioner von Mayringen rose from his chair in evident excitement.
      "Well?" he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a short question, but full of meaning, and one could see that he
      was waiting in great excitement for the answer. Muller reported what he
      had discovered. The commissioner thought it little enough, and shrugged
      his shoulders impatiently when the other had finished.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller noticed his chief's dissatisfaction and smiled at it. He himself
      was quite content with what he had found.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is that all?" murmured the commissioner, as if disappointed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is all," repeated the detective calmly, and added, "That is a good
      deal. We have here a closely written notebook, the contents of which,
      judging by your excitement, are evidently important. We have also a
      handkerchief with an unusual perfume on it. I repeat that this is quite
      considerable. Besides this, we have the seals, and we know several other
      things. I believe that we can save this lady, or if it be too late, we can
      avenge her at least."
    </p>
    <p>
      The commissioner looked at Muller in surprise. "We are in a city of more
      than a million inhabitants," he said, almost timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have hunted criminals in two hemispheres, and I have found them," said
      Muller simply. The young commissioner smiled and held out his hand. "Ah,
      yes, Muller&mdash;I keep forgetting the great things you have done. You
      are so quiet about it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What I have done is only what any one could do who has that particular
      faculty. I do only what is in human power to do, and the cleverest
      criminal can do no more. Besides which, we all know that every criminal
      commits some stupidity, and leaves some trace behind him. If it is really
      a crime which we have found the trace of here, we will soon discover it."
      Muller's editorial "we" was a matter of formality. He might with more
      truth have used the singular pronoun.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very well, then, do what you can," said the commissioner with a friendly
      smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      The older man nodded, took the book and its wrappings from the desk, and
      went into a small adjoining room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The commissioner sent for an attendant and gave him the order to fetch a
      pot of tea from a neighbouring saloon. When the tray arrived, he placed
      several good cigars upon it, and sent it in to Muller. Taking a cigar
      himself, the commissioner leaned back in his sofa corner to think over
      this first interesting case of his short professional experience. That it
      concerned a lady in distress made it all the more romantic.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his little room the detective, put in good humour by the thoughtful
      attention of his chief, sat down to read the book carefully. While he
      studied its contents his mind went back over his search in the silent
      street outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      He and Amster had hurried out into the raw chill of the night, reaching
      the spot of the first discovery in about ten or fifteen minutes. Muller
      found nothing new there. But he was able to discover in which direction
      the carriage had been going. The hoof marks of the single horse which had
      drawn it were still plainly to be seen in the snow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will you follow these tracks in the direction from which they have come?"
      he asked of Amster. "Then meet me at the station and report what you have
      seen."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very well, sir," answered the workman. The two men parted with a hand
      shake.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before Muller started on to follow up the tracks in the other direction,
      he took up one of the larger pieces' of glass. "Cheap glass," he said,
      looking at it carefully. "It was only a hired cab, therefore, and a
      one-horse cab at that."
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked on slowly, following the marks of the wheels. His eyes searched
      the road from side to side, looking for any other signs that might have
      been left by the hand which had thrown the package out of the window. The
      snow, which had been falling softly thus far, began to come down in
      heavier flakes, and Muller quickened his pace. The tracks would soon be
      covered, but they could still be plainly seen. They led out into the open
      country, but when the first little hill had been climbed a drift heaped
      itself up, cutting off the trail completely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller stood on the top of this knoll at a spot where the street divided.
      Towards the right it led down into a factory suburb; towards the left the
      road led on to a residence colony, and straight ahead the way was open,
      between fields, pastures and farms, over moors, to another town of
      considerable size lying beside a river. Muller knew all this, but his
      knowledge of the locality was of little avail, for all traces of the
      carriage wheels were lost.
    </p>
    <p>
      He followed each one of the streets for a little distance, but to no
      purpose. The wind blew the snow up in such heaps that it was quite
      impossible to follow any trail under such conditions.
    </p>
    <p>
      With an expression of impatience Muller gave up his search and turned to
      go back again. He was hoping that Amster might have had better luck. It
      was not possible to find the goal towards which the wagon had taken its
      prisoner&mdash;if prisoner she was&mdash;as soon as they had hoped.
      Perhaps the search must be made in the direction from which she had been
      brought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller turned back towards the city again. He walked more quickly now, but
      his eyes took in everything to the right and to the left of his path. Near
      the place where the street divided a bush waved its bare twigs in the
      wind. The snow which had settled upon it early in the day had been blown
      away by the freshening wind, and just as Muller neared the bush he saw
      something white fluttering from one twig. It was a handkerchief, which had
      probably hung heavy and lifeless when he had passed that way before. Now
      when the wind held it out straight, he saw it at once. He loosened it
      carefully from the thorny twigs. A delicate and rather unusual perfume
      wafted up to his face. There was more of the odour on the little cloth
      than is commonly used by people of good taste. And yet this handkerchief
      was far too fine and delicate in texture to belong to the sort of people
      who habitually passed along this street. It must have something to do with
      the mysterious carriage. It was still quite dry, and in spite of the fact
      that the wind had been playing with it, it had been but slightly torn. It
      could therefore have been in that position for a short time only. At the
      nearest lantern Muller saw that the monogram on the handkerchief was the
      same in style and initials as that on the notebook. It was the letters A.
      L.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWO. THE STORY OF THE NOTEBOOK
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was warm and comfortable in the little room where Muller sat. He closed
      the windows, lit the gas, took off his overcoat&mdash;Muller was a
      pedantically careful person&mdash;smoothed his hair and sat down
      comfortably at the table. Just as he took up the little book, the
      attendant brought the tea, which he proceeded at once to enjoy. He did not
      take up his little book again until he had lit himself a cigar. He looked
      at the cover of the dainty little notebook for many minutes before he
      opened it. It was a couple of inches long, of the usual form, and had a
      cover of brown leather. In the left upper corner were the letters A. L. in
      gold. The leaves of the book, about fifty in all, were of a fine quality
      of paper and covered with close writing. On the first leaves the writing
      was fine and delicate, calm and orderly, but later on it was irregular and
      uncertain, as if penned by a trembling hand under stress of terror. This
      change came in the leaves of the book which followed the strange and
      terrible title, "How I was murdered."
    </p>
    <p>
      Before Muller began to read he felt the covers of the book carefully. In
      one of them there was a tiny pocket, in which he found a little piece of
      wall paper of a noticeable and distinctly ugly pattern. The paper had a
      dark blue ground with clumsy lines of gold on it. In the pocket he found
      also a tramway ticket, which had been crushed and then carefully smoothed
      out again. After looking at these papers, Muller replaced them in the
      cover of the notebook. The book itself was strongly perfumed with the same
      odour which had exhaled from the handkerchief.
    </p>
    <p>
      The detective did not begin his reading in that part of the book which
      followed the mysterious title, as the commissioner had done. He began
      instead at the very first words.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah! she is still young," he murmured, when he had read the first lines.
      "Young, in easy circumstances, happy and contented."
    </p>
    <p>
      These first pages told of pleasure trips, of visits from and to good
      friends, of many little events of every-day life. Then came some accounts,
      written in pencil, of shopping expeditions to the city. Costly laces and
      jewels had been bought, and linen garments for children by the dozen. "She
      is rich, generous, and charitable," thought the detective, for the book
      showed that the considerable sums which had been spent here had not been
      for the writer herself. The laces bore the mark, "For our church"; behind
      the account for the linen stood the words, "For the charity school."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller began to feel a strong sympathy for the writer of these notices.
      She showed an orderly, almost pedantic, character, mingled with generosity
      of heart. He turned leaf after leaf until he finally came to the words,
      written in intentionally heavy letters, "How I was murdered."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller's head sank down lower over these mysterious words, and his eyes
      flew through the writing that followed. It was quite a different writing
      here. The hand that penned these words must have trembled in deadly
      terror. Was it terror of coming death, foreseen and not to be escaped? or
      was it the trembling and the terror of an overthrown brain? It was
      undoubtedly, in spite of the difference, the same hand that had penned the
      first pages of the book. A few characteristic turns of the writing were
      plainly to be seen in both parts of the story. But the ink was quite
      different also. The first pages had been written with a delicate violet
      ink, the later leaves were penned with a black ink of uneven quality, of
      the kind used by poor people who write very seldom. The words of this
      later portion of the book were blurred in many places, as if the writer
      had not been able to dry them properly before she turned the leaves. She
      therefore had had neither blotting paper nor sand at her disposal.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then the weird title!
    </p>
    <p>
      Was it written at the dictation of insanity? or did A. L. know, while she
      wrote it, that it was too late for any help to reach her? Did she see her
      doom approaching so clearly that she knew there was no escape?
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller breathed a deep breath before he continued his reading. Later on
      his breath came more quickly still, and he clinched his fist several
      times, as if deeply moved. He was not a cold man, only thoroughly
      self-controlled. In his breast there lived an unquenchable hatred of all
      evil. It was this that awakened the talents which made him the celebrated
      detective he had become.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I fear that it will be impossible for any one to save me now, but perhaps
      I may be avenged. Therefore I will write down here all that has happened
      to me since I set out on my journey." These were the first words that were
      written under the mysterious title. Muller had just read them when the
      commissioner entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will you speak to Amster; he has just returned?" he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller rose at once. "Certainly. Did you telegraph to all the railway
      stations?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," answered the commissioner, "and also to the other police stations."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And to the hospitals?&mdash;asylums?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, I did not do that." Commissioner von Mayringen blushed, a blush that
      was as becoming to him as was his frank acknowledgment of his mistake. He
      went out to remedy it at once, while Muller heard Amster's short and not
      particularly important report. The workingman was evidently shivering, and
      the detective handed him a glass of tea with a good portion of rum in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here, drink this; you are cold. Are you ill?" Amster smiled sadly. "No, I
      am not ill, but I was discharged to-day and am out of work now&mdash;that's
      almost as bad."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are you married?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, but I have an old mother to support."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Leave your address with the commissioner. He may be able to find work for
      you; we can always use good men here. But now drink your tea." Amster
      drank the glass in one gulp. "Well, now we have lost the trail in both
      directions," said Muller calmly. "But we will find it again. You can help,
      as you are free now anyway. If you have the talent for that sort of thing,
      you may find permanent work here."
    </p>
    <p>
      A gesture and a look from the workingman showed the detective that the
      former did not think very highly of such occupation. Muller laid his hand
      on the other's shoulder and said gravely: "You wouldn't care to take
      service with us? This sort of thing doesn't rate very high, I know. But I
      tell you that if we have our hearts in the right place, and our brains are
      worth anything, we are of more good to humanity than many an honest
      citizen who wouldn't shake hands with us. There&mdash;and now I am busy.
      Goodnight."
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words Muller pushed the astonished man out of the room, shut
      the door, and sat down again with his little book. This is what he read:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wednesday&mdash;is it Wednesday? They brought me a newspaper to-day which
      had the date of Wednesday, the 20th of November. The ink still smells
      fresh, but it is so damp here, the paper may have been older. I do not
      know surely on what day it is that I begin to write this narrative. I do
      not know either whether I may not have been ill for days and weeks; I do
      not know what may have been the matter with me&mdash;I know only that I
      was unconscious, and that when I came to myself again, I was here in this
      gloomy room. Did any physician see me? I have seen no one until to-day
      except the old woman, whose name I do not know and who has so little to
      say. She is kind to me otherwise, but I am afraid of her hard face and of
      the smile with which she answers all my questions and entreaties. 'You are
      ill.' These are the only words that she has ever said to me, and she
      pointed to her forehead as she spoke them. She thinks I am insane,
      therefore, or pretends to think so.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What a hoarse voice she has. She must be ill herself, for she coughs all
      night long. I can hear it through the wall&mdash;she sleeps in the next
      room. But I am not ill, that is I am not ill in the way she says. I have
      no fever now, my pulse is calm and regular. I can remember everything,
      until I took that drink of tea in the railway station. What could there
      have been in that tea? I suppose I should have noticed how anxious my
      travelling companion was to have me drink it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who could the man have been? He was so polite, so fatherly in his anxiety
      about me. I have not seen him since then. And yet I feel that it is he who
      has brought me into this trap, a trap from which I may never escape alive.
      I will describe him. He is very tall, stout and blond, and wears a long
      heavy beard, which is slightly mixed with grey. On his right cheek his
      beard only partly hides a long scar. His eyes are hidden by large smoked
      glasses. His voice is low and gentle, his manners most correct&mdash;except
      for his giving people poison or whatever else it was in that tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did not suffer any&mdash;at least I do not remember anything except
      becoming unconscious. And I seem to have felt a pain like an iron ring
      around my head. But I am not insane, and this fear that I feel does not
      spring from my imagination, but from the real danger by which I am
      surrounded. I am very hungry, but I do not dare to eat anything except
      eggs, which cannot be tampered with. I tasted some soup yesterday, and it
      seemed to me that it had a queer taste. I will eat nothing that is at all
      suspicious. I will be in my full senses when my murderers come; they shall
      not kill me by poison at least.
    </p>
    <p>
      "When I came to my senses again&mdash;it was the evening of the day before
      yesterday&mdash;I found a letter on the little table beside my bed. It was
      written in French, in a handwriting that I had never seen before, and
      there was no signature.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This strange letter demanded of me that I should write to my guardian,
      calmly and clearly, to say that for reasons which I did not intend to
      reveal, I had taken my own life. If I did this my present place of sojourn
      would be exchanged for a far more agreeable one, and I would soon be quite
      free. But if I did not do it, I would actually be put to death. A pen, ink
      and paper were ready there for the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Never,' I wrote. And then despair came over me, and I may have indeed
      appeared insane. The old woman came in. I entreated and implored her to
      tell me why this dreadful fate should have overtaken me. She remained
      quite indifferent and I sank back, almost fainting, on the bed. She laid a
      moist cloth over my face, a cloth that had a peculiar odour. I soon fell
      asleep. It seemed to me that there was some one else besides the woman in
      the room with me. Or was she talking to herself? Next morning the letter
      and my answer had disappeared. It was as I thought; there was some one
      else in my room. Some one who had come on the tramway. I found the ticket
      on the carpet beside my bed. I took it and put it in my notebook!!!!!
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe that it is Sunday to-day. It is four days now since I have been
      conscious. The first sound that I remember hearing was the blast of a
      horn. It must come from a factory very near me. The old windows in my room
      rattle at the sound. I hear it mornings and evenings and at noon, on week
      days. I did not hear it to-day, so it must be Sunday. It was Monday, the
      18th of November, that I set out on my trip, and reached here in the
      evening&mdash;(here? I do not know where I am), that is, I set out for
      Vienna, and I know that I reached the Northern Railway station there in
      safety.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was cold and felt a little faint&mdash;and then he offered me the tea&mdash;and
      what happened after that? Where am I? The paper that they gave me may have
      been a day or two old or more. And to-day is Sunday&mdash;is it the first
      Sunday since my departure from home? I do not know. I know only this, that
      I set out on the 18th of November to visit my kind old guardian, and to
      have a last consultation with him before my coming of age. And I know also
      that I have fallen into the hands of some one who has an interest in my
      disappearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is some one in the next room with the old woman. I hear a man's
      voice and they are quarrelling. They are talking of me. He wants her to do
      something which she will not do. He commands her to go away, but she
      refuses. What does he mean to do? I do not want her to leave me alone. I
      do not hate her any more; I know that she is not bad. When I listened I
      heard her speaking of me as of an insane person. She really believes that
      I am ill. When the man went away he must have been angry. He stamped down
      the stairs until the steps creaked under his tread: I know it is a wooden
      staircase therefore.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am safe from him to-day, but I am really ill of fright. Am I really
      insane? There is one thing that I have forgotten to write down. When I
      first came to myself I found a bit of paper beside me on which was
      written, 'Beware of calling in help from outside. One scream will mean
      death to you.' It was written in French like the letter. Why? Was it
      because the old woman could not read it? She knew of the piece of paper,
      for she took it away from me. It frightens me that I should have forgotten
      to write this down. Am I really ill? If I am not yet ill, this terrible
      solitude will make me so.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What a gloomy room this is, this prison of mine. And such a strange ugly
      wall-paper. I tore off a tiny bit of it and hid it in this little book.
      Some one may find it some day and may discover from it this place where I
      am suffering, and where I shall die, perhaps. There cannot be many who
      would buy such a pattern, and it must be possible to find the factory
      where it was made. And I will also write down here what I can see from my
      barred window. Far down below me there is a rusty tin roof, it looks like
      as if it might belong to a sort of shed. In front and to the right there
      are windowless walls; to the left, at a little distance, I can see a
      slender church spire, greenish in colour, probably covered with copper,
      and before the church there are two poplar trees of different heights.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Another day has passed, a day of torturing fear! Am I really insane? I
      know that I see queer things. This morning I looked towards the window and
      I saw a parrot sitting there! I saw it quite plainly. It ruffled up its
      red and green feathers and stared at me. I stared back at it and suddenly
      it was gone. I shivered. Finally I pulled myself together and went to the
      window. There was no bird outside nor was there a trace of any in the snow
      on the window sill. Could the wind have blown away the tracks so soon, or
      was it really my sick brain that appeared to see this tropical bird in the
      midst of the snow? It is Tuesday to-day; from now on I will carefully
      count the days&mdash;the days that still remain to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This morning I asked the old woman about the parrot. She only smiled and
      her smile made me terribly afraid. The thought that this thing which is
      happening to me, this thing that I took to be a crime, may be only a
      necessity&mdash;the thought fills me with horror! Am I in a prison? or is
      this the cell of an insane asylum? Am I the victim of a villain? or am I
      really mad? My pulse is quickening, but my memory is quite clear; I can
      look back over every incident in my life.
    </p>
    <p>
      "She has just taken away my food. I asked her to bring me only eggs as I
      was afraid of everything else. She promised that she would do it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are they looking for me? My guardian is Theodore Fellner, Cathedral Lane,
      14. My own name is Asta Langen.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They took away my travelling bag, but they did not find this little book
      and the tiny bottle of perfume which I had in the pocket of my dress. And
      I found this old pen and a little ink in a drawer of the writing table in
      my room.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wednesday. The stranger was here again to-day. I recognised his soft
      voice. He spoke to the woman in the hall outside my room. I listened, but
      I could catch only a few words. 'To-morrow evening&mdash;I will come
      myself&mdash;no responsibility for you.' Were these words meant for me?
      Are they going to take me away? Where will they take me? Then they do not
      dare to kill me here? My head is burning hot. I have not dared to drink a
      drop of liquid for four days. I dare not take anything into which they
      might have put some drug or some poison.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who could have such an interest in my death? It cannot be because of the
      fortune which is to be mine when I come of age; for if I die, my father
      has willed it to various charitable institutions. I have no relatives, at
      least none who could inherit my money. I had never harmed any one; who can
      wish for my death?
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is somebody with her, somebody was listening at the door. I have a
      feeling as if I was being watched. And yet&mdash;I examined the door, but
      there is no crack anywhere and the key is in the lock. Still I seem to
      feel a burning glance resting on me. Ah! the parrot! is this another
      delusion? Oh God, let it end soon! I am not yet quite insane, but all
      these unknown dangers around me will drive me mad. I must fight against
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thursday. They brought me back my travelling bag. My attendant is uneasy.
      She was longer in cleaning up the room than usual to-day. She seemed to
      want to say something to me, and yet she did not dare to speak. Is
      something to happen to-day then? I did not close my eyes all night. Can
      one be made insane from a distance? hypnotised into it, as it were? I will
      not allow fear alone to make me mad. My enemy shall not find it too easy.
      He may kill my body, but that is all&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      These were the last words which Asta Langen had written in her notebook,
      the little book which was the only confidant of her terrible need. When
      the detective had finished reading it, he closed his eyes for a few
      minutes to let the impression made by the story sink into his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he rose and put on his overcoat. He entered the commissioner's room
      and took up his hat and cane.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where are you going, Muller?" asked Herr Von Mayringen.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To Cathedral Lane, if you will permit it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At this hour? it is quarter past eleven! Is there any such hurry, do you
      think? There is no train from any of our stations until morning. And I
      have already sent a policeman to watch the house. Besides, I know that
      Fellner is a highly respected man.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is many a man who is highly respected until he is found out,"
      remarked the detective.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you are going to find out about Fellner?" smiled the commissioner.
      "And this evening, too?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "This very evening. If he is asleep I shall wake him up. That is the best
      time to get at the truth about a man."
    </p>
    <p>
      The commissioner sat down at his desk and wrote out the necessary
      credentials for the detective. A few moments later Muller was in the
      street. He left the notebook with the commissioner. It was snowing
      heavily, and an icy north wind was howling through the streets. Muller
      turned up the collar of his coat and walked on quickly. It was just
      striking a quarter to twelve when he reached Cathedral Lane. As he walked
      slowly along the moonlit side of the pavement, a man stepped out of the
      shadow to meet him. It was the policeman who had been sent to watch the
      house. Like Muller, he wore plain clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well?" the latter asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nothing new. Mr. Fellner has been ill in bed several days, quite
      seriously ill, they tell me. The janitor seems very fond of him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hm&mdash;we'll see what sort of a man he is. You can go back to the
      station now, you must be nearly frozen standing here."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller looked carefully at the house which bore the number 14. It was a
      handsome, old-fashioned building, a true patrician mansion which looked
      worthy of all confidence. But Muller knew that the outside of a house has
      very little to do with the honesty of the people who live in it. He rang
      the bell carefully, as he wished no one but the janitor to hear him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter did not seem at all surprised to find a stranger asking for the
      owner of the house at so late an hour. "You come with a telegram, I
      suppose? Come right up stairs then, I have orders to let you in."
    </p>
    <p>
      These were the words with which the old janitor greeted Muller. The
      detective could see from this that Mr. Theodore Fellner's conscience must
      be perfectly clear. The expected telegram probably had something to do
      with the non-appearance of Asta Langen, of whose terrible fate her
      guardian evidently as yet knew nothing. The janitor knocked on one of the
      doors, which was opened in a few moments by an old woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is it the telegram?" she asked sleepily.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said the janitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," said Muller, "but I want to speak to Mr. Fellner."
    </p>
    <p>
      The two old people stared at him in surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To speak to him?" said the woman, and shook her head as if in doubt. "Is
      it about Miss Langen?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, please wake him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But he is ill, and the doctor&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Please wake him up. I will take the responsibility."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But who are you?" asked the janitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller smiled a little at this belated caution on the part of the old man,
      and answered. "I will tell Mr. Fellner who I am. But please announce me at
      once. It concerns the young lady." His expression was so grave that the
      woman waited no longer, but let him in and then disappeared through
      another door. The janitor stood and looked at Muller with half
      distrustful, half anxious glances.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's no good news you bring," he said after a few minutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You may be right."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Has anything happened to our dear young lady?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then you know Miss Asta Langen and her family?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, of course. I was in service on the estate when all the dreadful
      things happened."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What things?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why the divorce&mdash;and&mdash;but you are a stranger and I shouldn't
      talk about these family affairs to you. You had better tell me what has
      happened to our young lady."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I must tell that to your master first."
    </p>
    <p>
      The woman came back at this moment and said to Muller, "Come with me,
      please. Berner, you are to stay here until the gentleman goes out again."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller followed her through several rooms into a large bed-chamber where
      he found an elderly man, very evidently ill, lying in bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who are you?" asked the sick man, raising his head from the pillow. The
      woman had gone out and closed the door behind her.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My name is Muller, police detective. Here are my credentials."
    </p>
    <p>
      Fellner glanced hastily at the paper. "Why does the police send to me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It concerns your ward."
    </p>
    <p>
      Fellner sat upright in bed now. He leaned over towards his visitor as he
      said, pointing to a letter on the table beside his bed, "Asta's overseer
      writes me from her estate that she left home on the 18th of November to
      visit me. She should have reached here on the evening of the 18th, and she
      has not arrived yet. I did not receive this letter until to-day."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did you expect the young lady?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I knew only that she would arrive sometime before the third of December.
      That date is her twenty-fourth birthday and she was to celebrate it here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did she not usually announce her coming to you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, she liked to surprise me. Three days ago I sent her a telegram asking
      her to bring certain necessary papers with her. This brought the answer
      from the overseer of her estate, an answer which has caused me great
      anxiety. Your coming makes it worse, for I fear&mdash;" The sick man broke
      off and turned his eyes on Muller; eyes so full of fear and grief that the
      detective's heart grew soft. He felt Fellner's icy hand on his as the sick
      man murmured: "Tell me the truth! Is Asta dead?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The detective shrugged his shoulders. "We do not know yet. She was alive
      and able to send a message at half past eight this evening."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A message? To whom?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To the nearest police station." Muller told the story as it had come to
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man listened with an expression of such utter dazed terror that
      the detective dropped all suspicion of him at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What a terrible riddle," stammered the sick man as the other finished the
      story.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Would you answer me several questions?" asked Muller. The old gentleman
      answered quickly, "Any one, every one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Miss Langen is rich?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She has a fortune of over three hundred thousand guldens, and
      considerable land."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Has she any relatives?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," replied Fellner harshly. But a thought must have flashed through his
      brain for he started suddenly and murmured, "Yes, she has one relative, a
      step-brother."
    </p>
    <p>
      The detective gave an exclamation of surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why are you astonished at this?" asked Fellner.
    </p>
    <p>
      "According to her notebook, the young lady does not seem to know of this
      step-brother."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She does not know, sir. There was an ugly scandal in her family before
      her birth. Her father turned his first wife and their son out of his house
      on one and the same day. He had discovered that she was deceiving him, and
      also that her son, who was studying medicine at the time, had stolen money
      from his safe. What he had discovered about his wife made Langen doubt
      whether the boy was his son at all. There was a terrible scene, and the
      two disappeared from their home forever. The woman died soon after. The
      young man went to Australia. He has never been heard of since and has
      probably come to no good."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Might he not possibly be here in Europe again, watching for an
      opportunity to make a fortune?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Fellner's hand grasped that of his visitor. The eyes of the two men gazed
      steadily at each other. The old man's glance was full of sudden helpless
      horror, the detective's eyes shone brilliantly. Muller spoke calmly: "This
      is one clue. Is there no one else who could have an interest in the young
      lady's death?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No one but Egon Langen, if he bear this name by right, and if he is still
      alive."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How old would he be now?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He must be nearly forty. It was many years before Langen married again."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you know him personally?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have you a picture of Miss Langen?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Fellner rang a bell and Berner appeared. "Give this gentleman Miss Asta's
      picture. Take the one in the silver frame on my desk;" the old gentleman's
      voice was friendly but faint with fatigue. His old servant looked at him
      in deep anxiety. Fellner smiled weakly and nodded to the man. "Sad news,
      Berner! Sad news and bad news. Our poor Asta is being held a prisoner by
      some unknown villain who threatens her with death."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My God, is it possible? Can't we help the poor young lady?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "We will try to help her, or if it is&mdash;too late, we will at least
      avenge her. My entire fortune shall be given up for it. But bring her
      picture now."
    </p>
    <p>
      Berner brought the picture of a very pretty girl with a bright intelligent
      face. Muller took the picture out of the frame and put it in his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You will come again? soon? And remember, I will give ten thousand guldens
      to the man who saves Asta, or avenges her. Tell the police to spare no
      expense&mdash;I will go to headquarters myself to-morrow."
    </p>
    <p>
      Fellner was a little surprised that Muller, although he had already taken
      up his hat, did not go. The sick man had seen the light flash up in the
      eyes of the other as he named the sum. He thought he understood this
      excitement, but it touched him unpleasantly and he sank back, almost
      frightened, in his cushions as the detective bent over him with the words
      "Good. Do not forget your promise, for I will save Miss Langen or avenge
      her. But I do not want the money for myself. It is to go to those who have
      been unjustly convicted and thus ruined for life. It may give the one or
      the other of them a better chance for the future."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you? what good do you get from that?" asked the old gentleman,
      astonished. A soft smile illumined the detective's plain features and he
      answered gently, "I know then that there will be some poor fellow who will
      have an easier time of it than I have had."
    </p>
    <p>
      He nodded to Fellner, who had already grasped his hand and pressed it
      hard. A tear ran down his grey beard, and long after Muller had gone the
      old gentleman lay pondering over his last words.
    </p>
    <p>
      Berner led the visitor to the door. As he was opening it, Muller asked:
      "Has Egon Langen a bad scar on his right cheek?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Berner's eyes looked his astonishment. How did the stranger know this? And
      how did he come to mention this forgotten name.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, he has, but how did you know it?" he murmured in surprise. He
      received no answer, for Muller was already walking quickly down the
      street. The old man stared after him for some few minutes, then suddenly
      his knees began to tremble. He closed the door with difficulty, and sank
      down on a bench beside it. The wind had blown out the light of his
      lantern; Berner was sitting in the dark without knowing it, for a sudden
      terrible light had burst upon his soul, burst upon it so sharply that he
      hid his eyes with his hands, and his old lips murmured, "Horrible!
      Horrible! The brother against the sister."
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning was clear and bright. Muller was up early, for he had
      taken but a few hours sleep in one of the rooms of the station, before he
      set out into the cold winter morning. At the next corner he found Amster
      waiting for him. "What are you doing here?" he asked in astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have been thinking over what you said to me yesterday. Your profession
      is as good and perhaps better than many another."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you come out here so early to tell me that?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Amster smiled. "I have something else to say."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The commissioner asked me yesterday if I knew of a church in the city
      that had a slender spire with a green top and two poplars in front of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller looked his interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thought it might possibly be the Convent Church of the Grey Sisters,
      but I wasn't quite sure, so I went there an hour ago. It's all right, just
      as I thought. And I suppose it has something to do with the case of last
      night, so I thought I had better report at once. I was on my way to the
      station."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That will do very well. You have saved us much time and you have shown
      that you are eminently fitted for this business."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you really will try me, then&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "We'll see. You can begin on this. Come to the church with me now." Muller
      was no talker, particularly not when, as now, his brain was busy on a
      problem.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two men walked on quickly. In about half an hour they found themselves
      in a little square in the middle of which stood an old church. In front of
      the church, like giant sentinels, stood a pair of tall poplars. One of
      them looked sickly and was a good deal shorter than its neighbour. Muller
      nodded as if content.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is this the church the commissioner was talking about?" queried Amster.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is," was the answer. Muller walked on toward a little house built up
      against the church, which was evidently the dwelling of the sexton.
    </p>
    <p>
      The detective introduced himself to this official, who did not look
      over-intelligent, as a stranger in the city who had been told that the
      view from the tower of the church was particularly interesting. A bright
      silver piece banished all distrust from the soul of the worthy man. With
      great friendliness he inquired when the gentlemen would like to ascend the
      tower. "At once," was the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sexton took a bunch of keys and told the strangers to follow him. A
      few moments later Muller and his companion stood in the tiny belfry room
      of the slender spire. The fat sexton, to his own great satisfaction, had
      yielded to their request not to undertake the steep ascent. The cloudless
      sky lay crystal clear over the still sleeping city and the wide spread
      snow-covered fields which lay close at hand, beyond the church. On the one
      side were gardens and the low rambling buildings of the convent, and on
      the other were huddled high-piled dwellings of poverty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller looked out of each of the four windows in turn. He spent some time
      at each window, but evidently without discovering what he looked for, for
      he shook his head in discontent. But when he went once more to the opening
      in the East, into which the sun was just beginning to pour its light,
      something seemed to attract his attention. He called Amster and pointed
      from the window. "Your eyes are younger than mine, lend them to me. What
      do you see over there to the right, below the tall factory chimney?"
      Muller's voice was calm, but there was something in his manner that
      revealed excitement. Amster caught the infection without knowing why. He
      looked sharply in the direction towards which Muller pointed, and began:
      "There is a tall house near the chimney, to the right of it, one wall
      touching it. The house is crowded in between other newer buildings, and
      looks to be very old and of a much better sort than its neighbours. The
      other houses are plain stone, but this house has carvings and statues on
      it, which are white with snow. But the house is in bad condition, one can
      see cracks in the wall."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And its windows?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot see them. They must be on the other side of the house, towards
      the courtyard which seems to be hemmed in by the blank walls of the other
      houses."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And at the front of the house?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is a low wall in front which shuts off the courtyard from a narrow,
      ill-kept street."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, I see it myself now. The street is bordered mainly by gardens and
      vacant lots."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, sir, that is it." Muller nodded as if satisfied. Amster looked at
      him in surprise, still more surprised, however, at the excitement he felt
      himself. He did not understand it, but Muller understood it. He knew that
      he had found in Amster a talent akin to his own, one of those natures who
      once having taken up a trail cannot rest until they reach their goal. He
      looked for a few moments in satisfaction at the assistant he had found by
      such chance, then he turned and hastened down the stairs again.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We're going to that house?" asked Amster when they were down in the
      street. Muller nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without hesitation the two men made their way through a tangle of dingy,
      uninteresting alleys, between modern tenements, until about ten minutes
      later they stood before an old three-storied building, which had a
      frontage of four windows on the street. "This is our place," said the
      detective, looking up at the tall, handsome gateway and the rococo
      carvings that ornamented the front of this decaying dwelling. It was very
      evidently of a different age and class from those about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller had already raised his hand to pull the bell, when he stopped and
      let it sink again. His eye caught sight of a placard pasted up on the wall
      of the next house, and already half torn off by the wind. The detective
      walked over, and raising the placard with his cane, read the words on it.
      "That's right," he said to himself. Amster gave a look on the paper. But
      he could not connect the contents of the notice with the case of the
      kidnapped lady, and he shook his head in surprise when Muller turned to
      him with the words: "The lady we are looking for is not insane." On the
      paper was announced in large letters that a reward would be offered to the
      finder of a red and green parrot which had escaped from a neighbouring
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller rang the bell and they had to wait some few minutes before the door
      opened with great creakings, and the towsled head of an old woman peered
      out.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What do you want?" she asked hoarsely, with distrustful looks.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let us in, and then give us the keys of the upstairs rooms." Muller's
      voice was friendly, but the woman grew perceptibly paler.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who are you?" she stammered. Muller threw back his overcoat and showed
      her his badge. "But there is nobody here, the house is quite empty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There were a lady and gentleman here last evening." The woman threw a
      frightened look at Muller, then she said hesitatingly: "The lady was
      insane and has been taken to an asylum."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is what the man told you. He is a criminal and the police are
      looking for him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come with me," murmured the woman. She seemed to understand that further
      resistance was useless. She carefully locked the outside door. Amster
      remained down stairs in the corridor, while Muller followed the old woman
      up the stairs. The staircase to the third story was made of wood. The
      house was evidently very old, with low ceilings and many dark corners.
    </p>
    <p>
      The woman led Muller into the room in which she had cared for the strange
      lady at the order of the latter's "husband." He had told her that it was
      only until he could take the lady to an asylum. One look at the wall
      paper, a glance out of the window, and Muller knew that this was where
      Asta Langen had been imprisoned. He sat down on a chair and looked at the
      woman, who stood frightened before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you know where they have taken the lady?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, sir.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you know the gentleman's name?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, sir.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You did not send the lady's name to the authorities?" *
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, sir."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Any stranger taking rooms in a hotel or lodging house must
     be registered with the police authorities by the proprietor
     of the house within forty-eight hours of arrival.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Were you not afraid you would get into trouble?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The gentleman paid me well, and I did not think that he meant anything
      bad, and&mdash;and&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you did not think that it would be found out?" said Muller sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I took good care of the lady."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, we know that."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did she escape from her husband?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He was not her husband. But now tell me all you know about these people;
      the more truthful you are the better it will be for you."
    </p>
    <p>
      The old woman was so frightened that she could scarcely find strength to
      talk. When she finally got control of herself again she began: "He came
      here on the first of November and rented this room for himself. But he was
      here only twice before he brought the lady and left her alone here. She
      was very ill when he brought her here&mdash;so ill that he had to carry
      her upstairs. I wanted to go for a doctor, but he said he was a doctor
      himself, and that he could take care of his wife, who often had such
      attacks. He gave me some medicine for her after I had put her to bed. I
      gave her the drops, but it was a long while before she came to herself
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then he told me that she had lost her mind, and that she believed
      everybody was trying to harm her. She was so bad that he was taking her to
      an asylum. But he hadn't found quite the right place yet, and wanted me to
      keep her here until he knew where he could take her. Once he left a
      revolver here by mistake. But I hid it so the lady wouldn't see it, and
      gave it to the gentleman the next time he came. He was angry at that,
      though I couldn't see why, and said I shouldn't have touched it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The woman had told her story with much hesitation, and stopped altogether
      at this point. She had evidently suddenly realised that the lady was not
      insane, but only in great despair, and that people in such a state will
      often seek death, particularly if any weapon is left conveniently within
      their reach.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What did this gentleman look like?" asked Muller, to start her talking
      again. She described her tenant as very tall and stout with a long beard
      slightly mixed with grey. She had never seen his eyes, for he wore smoked
      glasses.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did you notice anything peculiar about his face?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, nothing except that his beard was very heavy and almost covered his
      face."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Could you see his cheeks at all?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, or else I didn't notice."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did he leave nothing that might enable us to find him?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, sir, nothing. Or yes, perhaps, but I don't suppose that will be any
      good."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What was it? What do you mean?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It gave him a good deal of trouble to get the lady into the wagon,
      because she had fainted again. He lost his glove in doing it. I have it
      down stairs in my room, for I sleep down stairs again since the lady has
      gone."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller had risen from his chair and walked over to the old writing desk
      which stood beside one window. There were several sheets of ordinary brown
      paper on it and sharp pointed pencil and also something not usually found
      on writing desks, a piece of bread from which some of the inside had been
      taken. "Everything as I expected it," he said to himself. "The young lady
      made up the package in the last few moments that she was left alone here."
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned again to the old woman and commanded her to lead him down
      stairs. "What sort of a carriage was it in which they took the lady away?"
      he asked as they went down.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A closed coupe."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did you see the number?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, sir. But the carriage was very shabby and so was the driver."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Was he an old man?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He was about forty years old, but he looked like a man who drank. He had
      a light-coloured overcoat on."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good. Is this your room?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, sir."
    </p>
    <p>
      They were now in the lower corridor, where they found Amster walking up
      and down. The woman opened the door of the little room, and took a glove
      from a cupboard. Muller put it in his pocket and told the woman not to
      leave the house for anything, as she might be sent for to come to the
      police station at any moment. Then he went out into the street with
      Amster. When they were outside in the sunlight, he looked at the glove. It
      was a remarkably small size, made for a man with a slender, delicate hand,
      not at all in accordance with the large stout body of the man described by
      the landlady. Muller put his hand into the glove and found something
      pushed up into the middle finger. He took it out and found that it was a
      crumpled tramway ticket.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look out for a shabby old closed coupe, with a driver about forty years
      old who looks like a drunkard and wears a light overcoat. If you find such
      a cab, engage it and drive in it to the nearest police station. Tell them
      there to hold the man until further notice. If the cab is not free, at
      least take his number. And one thing more, but you will know that
      yourself,&mdash;the cab we are looking for will have new glass in the
      right-hand window." Thus Muller spoke to his companion as he put the glove
      into his pocket and unfolded the tramway ticket. Amster understood that
      they had found the starting point of the drive of the night before.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will go to all coupe stands," he said eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, but we may be able to find it quicker than that." Muller took the
      little notebook, which he was now carrying in his pocket, and took from it
      the tramway ticket which was in the cover. He compared it with the one he
      had just found. They were both marked for the same hour of the day and for
      the same ride.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did the man use them?" asked Amster. The detective nodded. "How can they
      help us?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Somewhere on this stretch of the street railroad you will probably find
      the stand of the cab we are looking for. The man who hired it evidently
      arrived on the 6:30 train at the West Station&mdash;I have reason to
      believe that he does not live here,&mdash;and then took the street car to
      this corner. The last ticket is marked for yesterday. In the car he
      probably made his plans to hire a cab. So you had better stay along the
      line of the car tracks. You will find me in room seven, Police
      Headquarters, at noon to-day. The authorities have already taken up the
      case. You may have something to tell us then. Good luck to you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller hurried on, after he had taken a quick breakfast in a little cafe.
      He went at once to headquarters, made his report there and then drove to
      Fellner's house. The latter was awaiting him with great impatience. There
      the detective gathered much valuable information about the first marriage
      of Asta Langen's long-dead father. It was old Berner who could tell him
      the most about these long-vanished days.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he reached his office at headquarters again, he found telegrams in
      great number awaiting him. They were from all the hospitals and insane
      asylums in the entire district. But in none of them had there been a
      patient fitting the description of the vanished girl. Neither the
      commissioner nor Muller was surprised at this negative result. They were
      also not surprised at all that the other branches of the police department
      had been able to discover so little about the disappearance of the young
      lady. They were aware that they had to deal with a criminal of great
      ability who would be careful not to fall into the usual slips made by his
      kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no news from the cab either, although several detectives were
      out looking for it. It was almost nightfall when Amster ran breathlessly
      into room number seven. "I have him! he's waiting outside across the way!"
      This was Amster's report.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller threw on his coat hastily. "You didn't pay him, did you? On a cold
      day like this the drivers don't like to wait long in any one place."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No danger. I haven't money enough for that," replied Amster with a sad
      smile. Muller did not hear him as he was already outside. But the
      commissioner with whom he had been talking and to whom Muller had already
      spoken of his voluntary assistant, entered into a conversation with
      Amster, and said to him finally: "I will take it upon myself to guarantee
      your future, if you are ready to enter the secret service under Muller's
      orders. If you wish to do this you can stay right on now, for I think we
      will need you in this case."
    </p>
    <p>
      Amster bowed in agreement. His life had been troubled, his reputation
      darkened by no fault of his own, and the work he was doing now had
      awakened an interest and an ability that he did not know he possessed. He
      was more than glad to accept the offer made by the official.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller was already across the street and had laid his hand upon the door
      of the cab when the driver turned to him and said crossly, "Some one else
      has ordered me. But I am not going to wait in this cold, get in if you
      want to."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All right. Now tell me first where you drove to last evening with the
      sick lady and her companion?" The man looked astonished but found his
      tongue again in a moment. "And who are you?" he asked calmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We will tell you that upstairs in the police station," answered Muller
      equally calmly, and ordered the man to drive through the gateway into the
      inner courtyard. He himself got into the wagon, and in the course of the
      short drive he had made a discovery. He had found a tiny glass stopper,
      such as is used in perfume bottles. He could understand from this why the
      odour of perfume which had now become familiar to him was still so strong
      inside the old cab. Also why it was so strong on the delicate
      handkerchief. Asta Langen had taken the stopper from the bottle in her
      pocket, so as to leave a trail of odour behind her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THREE. THE LONELY COTTAGE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Fifteen minutes after the driver had made his report to Commissioner Von
      Mayringen, the latter with Amster entered another cab. A well-armed
      policeman mounted the box of this second vehicle. "Follow that cab ahead,"
      the commissioner told his driver. The second cab followed the one-horse
      coupe in which Muller was seated. They drove first to No. 14 Cathedral
      Lane, where Muller told Berner to come with him. He found Mr. Fellner
      ready to go also, and it was with great difficulty that he could dissuade
      the invalid, who was greatly fatigued by his morning visit to the police
      station, from joining them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The carriages then drove off more quickly than before. It was now quite
      dark, a gloomy stormy winter evening. Muller had taken his place on the
      box of his cab and sat peering out into the darkness. In spite of the
      sharp wind and the ice that blew against his face the detective could see
      that they were going out from the more closely built up portions of the
      city, and were now in new streets with half-finished houses. Soon they
      passed even these and were outside of the city. The way was lonely and
      dreary, bordered by wooden fences on both sides. Muller looked sharply to
      right and to left.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You should have become alarmed here," he said to the driver, pointing to
      one part of the fence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why?" asked the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Because this is where the window was broken."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I didn't know that&mdash;until I got home."
    </p>
    <p>
      "H'm; you must have been nicely drunk."
    </p>
    <p>
      The driver murmured something in his beard.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stop here, this is your turn, down that street," Muller said a few
      moments later, as the driver turned the other way.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How do you know that?" asked the man, surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      "None of your business."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This street will take us there just the same."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Probably, but I prefer to go the way you went yesterday."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very well, it's all the same to me." They were silent again, only the
      wind roared around them, and somewhere in the distance a fog horn moaned.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was now six o'clock. The snow threw out a mild light which could not
      brighten the deep darkness around them. About half an hour later the first
      cab halted. "There's the house up there. Shall I drive to the garden
      gate?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, stop here." Muller was already on the ground. "Are there any dogs
      here?" he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I didn't hear any yesterday."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's of no value. You didn't seem to hear much of anything yesterday."
      Muller opened the door of the cab and helped Berner out. The old man was
      trembling. "That was a dreadful drive!" he stammered.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hope you will be happier on the drive back," said the detective and
      added, "You stay here with the commissioner now."
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter had already left his cab with his companion. His sharp eyes
      glanced over the heavily shaded garden and the little house in its midst.
      A little light shone from two windows of the first story. The men's eyes
      looked toward them, then the detective and Amster walked toward a high
      picket fence which closed the garden on the side nearest its neighbours.
      They shook the various pickets without much caution, for the wind made
      noise enough to kill any other sound. Amster called to Muller, he had
      found a loose picket, and his strong young arms had torn it out easily.
      Muller motioned to the other three to join them. A moment later they were
      all in the garden, walking carefully toward the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door was closed but there were no bars at the windows of the ground
      floor. Amster looked inquiringly at the commissioner and the latter nodded
      and said, "All right, go ahead."
    </p>
    <p>
      The next minute Amster had broken in through one pane of the window and
      turned the latch. The inner window was broken already so that it was not
      difficult for him to open it without any further noise. He disappeared
      into the dark room within. In a few seconds they heard a key turn in the
      door and it opened gently. The men entered, all except the policeman, who
      remained outside. The blind of his lantern was slightly opened, and he had
      his revolver ready in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller had opened his lantern also, and they saw that they were in a
      prettily furnished corridor from which the staircase and one door led out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The four men tiptoed up the stairway and the commissioner stepped to the
      first of the two doors which opened onto the upper corridor. He turned the
      key which was in the lock, and opened the door, but they found themselves
      in a room as dark as was the corridor. From somewhere, however, a ray of
      light fell into the blackness. The official stepped into the room, pulling
      Berner in after him. The poor old man was in a state of trembling
      excitement when he found himself in the house where his beloved young lady
      might already be a corpse. One step more and a smothered cry broke from
      his lips. The commissioner had opened the door of an adjoining room, which
      was lighted and handsomely furnished. Only the heavy iron bars across the
      closed windows showed that the young lady who sat leaning back wearily in
      an arm-chair was a prisoner.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked up as they entered. The expression of utter despair and deep
      weariness which had rested on her pale face changed to a look of terror;
      then she saw that it was not her would-be murderer who was entering, but
      those who came to rescue. A bright flush illumined her cheeks and her eyes
      gleamed. But the change was too sudden for her tortured soul. She rose
      from her chair, then sank fainting to the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Berner threw himself on his knees beside her, sobbing out, "She is dying!
      She is dying!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller turned on the instant, for he had heard the door on the other side
      of the hall open, and a tall slender man with a smooth face and a deep
      scar on his right cheek stood on the threshold looking at them in dazed
      surprise. For an instant only had he lost his control. The next second he
      was in his room again, slamming the door behind him. But it was too late.
      Amster's foot was already in the crack of the door and he pushed it open
      to let Muller enter. "Well done," cried the latter, and then he turned to
      the man in the room. "Here, stop that. I can fire twice before you get the
      window open."
    </p>
    <p>
      The man turned and walked slowly to the centre of the room, sinking down
      into an arm-chair that stood beside the desk. Neither Amster nor Muller
      turned their eyes from him for a moment, ready for any attempt on his part
      to escape. But the detective had already seen something that told him that
      Langen was not thinking of flight. When he turned to the desk, Muller had
      seen his eyes glisten while a scornful smile parted his thin lips. A
      second later he had let his handkerchief fall, apparently carelessly, upon
      the desk. But in this short space of time the detective's sharp eyes had
      seen a tiny bottle upon which was a black label with a grinning skull.
      Muller could not see whether the bottle was full or empty, but now he knew
      that it must hold sufficient poison to enable the captured criminal to
      escape open disgrace. Knowing this, Muller looked with admiration at the
      calmness of the villain, whose intelligent eyes were turned towards him in
      evident curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who are you and who else is here with you?" asked the man calmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am Muller of the Secret Service," replied his visitor and added, "You
      must put up with us for the time being, Mr. Egon Langen. The police
      commissioner is occupied with your step-sister, whom you were about to
      murder."
    </p>
    <p>
      Langen put his hand to his cheek, looking at Muller between his lashes as
      he said, "To murder? Who can prove that?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "We have all the proofs we need."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will acknowledge only that I wanted Asta to disappear."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller smiled. "What good would that have done you? You wanted her entire
      fortune, did you not? But that could have come to you only after thirty
      years, and you are not likely to have waited that long. Your plan was to
      murder your step-sister, even if you could not get a letter from her
      telling of her intention to commit suicide."
    </p>
    <p>
      Langen rose suddenly, but controlled himself again and sank back easily in
      his chair. "Then the old woman has been talking?" he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller shook his head. "We knew it through Miss Langen herself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She has spoken to no one for over ten days."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But you let her throw her notebook out of the window of the cab."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There, you see, you should not have let that happen."
    </p>
    <p>
      Drops of perspiration stood out on Langen's forehead. Until now, perhaps,
      he had had some possible hope of escape. It was useless now, he knew.
    </p>
    <p>
      As calmly as he had spoken thus far Muller continued. "For twenty years I
      have been studying the hearts of criminals like yourself. But there are
      things I do not understand about this case and it interests me very much."
    </p>
    <p>
      Langen had wiped the drops from his forehead and he now turned on Muller a
      face that seemed made of bronze. There was but one expression on it, that
      of cold scorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I feel greatly flattered, sir, to think that I can offer a problem to one
      of your experience," Langen began. His voice, which had been slightly
      veiled before, was now quite clear. "Ask me all you like. I will answer
      you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller began: "Why did you wait so long before committing the murder? and
      why did you drag your victim from place to place when you could have
      killed her easily in the compartment of the railway train?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The windows of the compartment were open, my honoured friend, and it was
      a fine warm evening for the season, because of which the windows in the
      other compartment were also open. There was nothing else I could do at
      that time then, except to offer Asta a cup of tea when she felt a little
      faint upon leaving the train. I am a physician and I know how to use the
      right drugs at the right time. When Asta had taken the tea, she knew
      nothing more until she woke up a day later in a room in the city."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And the piece of paper with the threat on it? and the revolver you left
      so handy for her? oh, but I forgot, the old woman took the weapon away
      before the lady could use it in her despair," said Muller.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Quite right. I see you know every detail."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But why didn't you complete your crime in the room in the old house?"
      persisted Muller.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Because I lost my false beard one day upon the staircase, and I feared
      the old woman might have seen my face enough to recognise me again. I
      thought it better to look for another place."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And then you found this house."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, but several days later."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you hired it in the name of Miss Asta Langen? Who would then have
      been found dead here several days after you had entered the house?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Several days, several weeks perhaps. I preferred to wait until the woman
      who rented the house had read in the papers that Asta Langen had
      disappeared and was being sought for. Somebody would have found her here,
      and her identity would have easily been established, for I knew that she
      had some important family documents with her."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller was silent a moment, with an expression of deep pity on his face.
      Then he continued: "Yes, someone would have found her, and her suicide
      would have been a dark mystery, unless, of course, malicious tongues would
      have found ugly reasons enough why a beautiful young lady should hide
      herself in a lonely cottage to take her own life."
    </p>
    <p>
      Muller had spoken as if to himself. Egon Langen's lips, parted in a smile
      so evil that Amster clenched his fists.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you would not have regretted this ruining the reputation as well as
      taking the life of an innocent girl?" asked the detective low and tense.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, for I hated her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You hated her because she was rich and innocent. She was very charitable
      and would gladly have helped you if you were in need. Beside this, you
      were entitled to a portion of your father's estate. It is almost thirty
      thousand guldens, as Mr. Fellner tells me. Why did you not take that?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fellner did not know that I had already received twenty thousand of this
      when my father turned me out. He probably would have heard of it later,
      for Berner was the witness. I did not care for the remaining ten thousand
      because I would have the entire fortune after Asta's death. I would have
      seen the official notice and the call for heirs in Australia, and would
      have written from there, announcing that I was still alive. If you had
      come several days later I should have been a rich man within a year."
    </p>
    <p>
      His clenched fist resting on his knee, the rascal stared out ahead of him
      when he ended his shameless confession. In his rage and disappointment he
      had not noticed that Muller's hand dropped gently to the desk and softly
      took a little bottle from under the handkerchief. Langen came out of his
      dark thoughts only when Muller's voice broke the silence. "But you
      miscalculated, if you expected to inherit from your sister. She is still a
      minor and your father's will would have given you only ten thousand
      guldens.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But you forget that Asta will be twenty-four on the third of December."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, then you would have kept her alive until then."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You understand quickly," said Langen with a mocking smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But she disappeared on the eighteenth of November. How could you prove
      that she died after her birthday, therefore in full possession of her
      fortune and without leaving any will?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is very simple. I buy several newspapers every day. I would have
      taken them up to the fourth and fifth of December and left them here with
      the body."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are more clever even than I thought," said the detective dryly as he
      heard the commissioner's steps behind him. Muller put a whistle to his
      lips and its shrill tone ran through the house, calling up the policeman
      who stood by the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Egon Langen's face was grey with pallor, his features were distorted, and
      yet there was the ghost of a smile on his lips as he saw his captors enter
      the door. He put his hand out, raised his handkerchief hastily and then a
      wild scream echoed through the room, a scream that ended in a ghastly
      groan.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have taken your bottle, you might as well give yourself up quietly,"
      said Muller calmly, holding his revolver near Langen's face. The prisoner
      threw himself at the detective but was caught and overpowered by Amster
      and the policeman.
    </p>
    <p>
      A quarter of an hour later the cabs drove back toward the city. Inside one
      cowered Egon Langen, watched by the policeman and Amster. Berner was on
      the box beside the driver, telling the now interested man the story of
      what had happened to his dear young lady. In the other cab sat Asta Langen
      with Kurt von Mayringen and Muller.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you feel better now?" asked the young commissioner in sincere sympathy
      that was mingled with admiration for the delicate beauty of the girl
      beside him, an admiration heightened by her romantic story and marvelous
      escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      Asta nodded and answered gently: "I feel as if some terrible weight were
      lifted from my heart and brain. But I doubt if I will ever forget these
      horrible days, when I had already come to accept it as a fact that&mdash;that
      I was to be murdered."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is the man to whom you owe your escape," said the commissioner,
      laying his hand on Muller's knee. Asta did not speak, but she reached out
      in the darkness of the cab, caught Muller's hand and would have raised it
      to her lips, had not the little man drawn it away hastily. "It was only my
      duty, dear young lady," he said. "A duty that is not onerous when it means
      the rescue of innocence and the preventing of crime. It is not always so,
      unfortunately&mdash;nor am I always so fortunate as in this case."
    </p>
    <p>
      This indeed is what Muller calls a "case with a happy ending," for
      scarcely a year later, to his own great embarrassment, he found himself
      the most honoured guest, and a centre of attraction equally with the
      bridal couple, at the marriage of Kurt von Mayringen and Asta Langen.
      Muller asserts, however, that he is not a success in society, and that he
      would rather unravel fifty difficult cases than again be the "lion" at a
      fashionable function.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </p>
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