day after day with that picture, starting up at night from sleep—screaming—with that picture before her. Therefore the Lieutenant hesitated. “Now?” he asked.
The dark haggard man became almost angry. “When would it be, then? Do you think we have much more time to lose? We’ve got to know what’s going to happen.”
“I don’t think,” said the Lieutenant, retaliating for his blush, “that the young lady has time for me at the moment. She’s only a housemaid and will have to clean up now. And the cook bears me a grudge.” That’s the stuff, he thought. If they need me, let them stop being so genteel, and eat my dirt.
Herr Richter, however, had become quite cold and polite. “I am convinced, Herr Lieutenant,” he said, “that you can arrange the matter. I shall therefore expect your report here—inside an hour.”
The Lieutenant bowed, and Herr Richter was on the point of dismissing him when he caught a gesture from the fat man. “Oh, yes—one or two more questions, Herr Lieutenant, in another connection, with which this gentleman is dealing.”
The fat man advanced, with a curt greeting. He had been watching the Lieutenant during the entire discussion, but now he hardly looked at him. Without circumlocution, without a trace of politeness, he asked: “Neulohe is in your district?”
“Certainly, Herr …?”
“The arms dump in the Black Dale also?”
The Lieutenant threw an irritated questioning glance at Herr Richter, who with an impatient sign ordered him to reply.
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you inspected the dump?”
“Three days ago. Tuesday.”
“Everything all right then?”
“Yes.”
“Had you set up secret marks?”
“I could see by the state of the ground that it had not been dug up since.”
“Are your people trustworthy?”
“Completely.”
“Do you think that anyone could have watched you while the arms were being buried?”
“That—no. Otherwise I would have shifted the dump at once.”
“Did anyone come in the neighborhood of the sentinels during the concealment?”
The Lieutenant was trying to consider what reply would be helpful to him. But the questions followed one another so rapidly, the observant eye was so cold, that he replied hastily, without reflection or weighing the consequences: “Yes.”
“Who?”
“Herr von Prackwitz and his daughter.”
“Did you know them?”
“Only by sight.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I sent them on.”
“Did both go forthwith?”
“Yes.”
“They asked for no explanation of what was taking place on their land?”
“Herr von Prackwitz is a former officer.”
“And his daughter?”
The Lieutenant was silent. This is like the police, he thought. Only criminals are questioned in this manner. Is there a spy in our section then? I heard something of that kind once.…
“And the daughter?” persisted the fat man.
“Said nothing.”
“You weren’t otherwise acquainted with her?”
“Only by sight.”
That look, that damned penetrating look! If only he had an idea what the fellow really knew! But, like this, one was groping in the dark completely. A single reply might have exposed him as a liar. And then … And then? Nothing more!
“You are certain that neither of the pair spied on your dump later?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“Why?”
“I should have seen by the ground.”
For the first time Herr Richter joined in. “I think we can be certain of Rittmeister von Prackwitz and his daughter. As a matter of fact they are now in town. I saw them go into The Golden Hat.”
“We could question them,” said the fat man thoughtfully, not removing his ice-cold glance from the Lieutenant.
“Certainly, question them! I’ll come with you at once. Come along, we’ll go,” almost shouted the Lieutenant. “What’s up? Am I a traitor? Have I blabbed? Come with me, you, Herr Policeman! Yes, I’ve just come from The Golden Hat; I was sitting there at a table with the Rittmeister and his daughter; I have—” He broke off, looking at his tormentor with hatred.
“Yes, what have you?” asked the fat man, quite unmoved by this outburst.
“I beg you, gentlemen,” cried God’s Pencil imploringly. “Don’t misunderstand the situation, Herr Lieutenant. There is no desire to offend you, but we have reason to believe that an arms dump has been betrayed. A car from the Entente Commission has been seen there. As yet we don’t know which dump is in question; we are inquiring of all the gentlemen to whom one has been entrusted. There is always the possibility that this is the reason for the peculiar behavior of our comrades opposite.”
The Lieutenant drew a deep breath. “Inquire, then,” he said to the other; and yet he felt that even that breath had been seen.
“You were speaking of The Golden Hat,” said the fat man impassively. “You said ‘I have’ and stopped.”
“Is that really necessary?” exclaimed Herr Richter in despair.
“I had some port with the Rittmeister, perhaps I was going to say that. I don’t remember now. Why don’t we go there?” he cried again, this time not desperately but in defiance, carrying on that game with death which had already been decided, however, as he well knew. “I’ll be pleased to go. It doesn’t matter to me. You can question Herr von Prackwitz in my presence.”
“And his daughter,” said the fat man.
“And his daughter,” repeated the Lieutenant, but in a low voice.
There was a silence, oppressive and lengthy.
What do they want, he thought in despair. Do they want to arrest me? They can’t do that. I am not a traitor; I have not lost my honor yet.
The fat man, without any embarrassment, whispered in Herr Richter’s ear, on whose face was seen once more, but intensified, an expression of disgust. He appeared to be in disagreement, to be rejecting something. Suddenly the Lieutenant remembered a former comrade from whom the colonel had torn the epaulettes in front of the regiment. But I don’t wear epaulettes, he thought forlornly; he can’t do that to me.
He looked across the room—it was ten paces to the door and no one stood in the way. Hesitatingly he took a step in that direction.
“A moment,” commanded the fat man roughly. His ice-cold eye saw everything, even when it was turned away.
“I answer for the dump with my honor,” cried the Lieutenant, beginning to tremble. The two men turned their faces to him. “And with my life,” he added, not so firmly.
It seemed as if the fat man made a slight negative gesture with his head, but Herr Richter said briskly: “Good. Good. Nobody mistrusts you, Herr Lieutenant.” The fat man was silent. No muscle of his face moved, but it nevertheless said: “I mistrust you.” I don’t want to be judged by you, thought the Lieutenant, not your way.
“May I go now?” asked the Lieutenant.
