She broke off suddenly. She dared not put into words the fancies evoked within her. For the husband whose eccentricities she tolerated was no more to her than a brother—nay, a father. They were bound together by one voluptuous hour of which no human being knew or even suspected. It was such an hour as that in which two human personalities melted into one to create a new being that later on might emerge and begin a life bound by invisible ties to that mysterious hour. The threads might be torn from their place, snapped, distorted, yet they remained entwined. No other desire now possessed her than to yield her senses once more unrestrainedly to that consciousness of the depths of her being which enfolded her as in a dream, and which she nevertheless continually thrust aside.
The two women sat close together, the Countess on the ground. Both seemed alike to be struck down by an invisible and imperious fist, striking at these centres of abandonment and yearning and self-betrayal. After the hasty and intimate avowals forced from them, the shadow of silence fell upon them.
“Say something!” pleaded the Countess timidly.
“Be silent, or I shall strangle you … with my own hands!” cried the dancer.
The Countess shrank back, feeling herself, beside the other, to resemble a hare in the claws of a mighty and powerful bird of prey.
Food was pushed into the cell, but neither of the women perceived it. It grew dark, and the dancer lay down, fully dressed, upon one of the plank beds. The Countess imitated her and stretched herself on the other straw pallet. The night passed by, and in the long sleepless hours their fancies flowed into a dark and turgid stream.
Suddenly in the gloom Cara’s voice was heard: “Are you asleep?”
“No.”
“Why are you here?”
The Countess had not the courage to repeat her tissue of lies, and she remained silent. Cara, too, kept silent for a while, then she said suddenly:
“You were sent here to pump me! Have I told you anything?”
“Yes.”
“About him?”
“Yes.”
“Did I tell you his name?”
“No.”
“That’s all right then, otherwise you would never leave this place alive. But if you are lying, and I had told it you, I tell you now, he has no name. He is a thousand men, a whole nation, a part of the universe!”
“Just like the man I have been thinking of,” reflected the Countess, but an instant later she did not know whether she had not spoken her thought aloud.
“When are you going away again?”
“When you want me to.”
“Then go at once, and tell everything I have told you!”
“No,” answered the Countess resolutely.
“Why don’t you, when that is what you came here for?”
“Things are different now.”
“Nothing is different,” asserted the dancer vehemently. “Everything is as it was and will ever be. He is out there, free as the air; I am here like a carcass rotting on the ground. Tell everything you know.”
“I shall say nothing!”
“Why not, you—you cursed hussy!” she shrieked.
“Because you love him so!”
Then the dancer grew calm again, but a few moments later she burst into tears and sobbed wildly and unrestrainedly.
The Countess lay still on her pallet. She felt as if a naked soul with claws, whence the skin and tissues had been withdrawn, were clutching at her heart and holding it within its grasp. She felt her own blood shudder and leap up beneath the claws and mingle with that of the other. This naked soul that clutched at her was her sister. She was akin in blood to the criminal yonder, but neither of the women knew that he who had thus caused their hearts to beat in unison during this night in prison was one and the same mysterious being.
XI
The news Wenk received of Karstens’ state was very unsatisfactory. Since he had, apparently, offered strong resistance to his attackers, a second man seemed to have struck him violently on the head with a crowbar, and the blow had resulted in concussion of the brain. At intervals he became conscious, but for short periods only, and at present it was impossible to say what the outcome would be. His state was so critical, the doctor declared, that any sustained conversation with him could not be thought of for at least two or three weeks.
As for the dancer, about whose participation in the affair he would have something to say, as his shout to the constables to take her into custody proved, Wenk had for the present to content himself with any evidence the Countess might obtain. Today was Monday, and at four o’clock in any case he would hear whether any explanation might be looked for from Cara Carozza.
He did not leave the house that day. The two main centres of his activity could not be reached by him in person; one was the women’s prison, the other, and far more important, was the town of Constance. He was frequently called up by telephone from the latter place, for this Poldringer had to be kept constantly under surveillance.
While spending the waiting hours at home impatiently, he frequently walked backwards and forwards to the window. On one of these occasions he noticed a man whom he had first seen as early as eight o’clock, and again half an hour later, and then not again for some time. The man always happened to be passing the house rapidly, or else standing at a turning some distance off. Could it be that he was there to spy upon his movements? Wenk resolved to put the matter to the test.
He ordered one of the members of the Secret
