And it's ten o'clock. My cousin,
why isn't Strelsau mourning for our lamented king? Why aren't the
flags at half-mast? I don't understand it."
"No," murmured Rischenheim, his eyes now fixed on his cousin's
face.
Rupert broke into a smile and tapped his teeth with his fingers.
"I wonder," said he meditatively, "if that old player Sapt has
got a king up his sleeve again! If that were so--" He stopped and
seemed to fall into deep thought. Rischenheim did not interrupt
him, but stood looking now at him, now out of the window. Still
there was no stir in the streets, and still the standards floated
at the summit of the flag staffs. The king's death was not yet
known in Strelsau.
"Where's Bauer?" asked Rupert suddenly. "Where the plague can
Bauer be? He was my eyes. Here we are, cooped up, and I don't
know what's going on."
"I don't know where he is. Something must have happened to him."
"Of course, my wise cousin. But what?"
Rupert began to pace up and down the room, smoking another
cigarette at a great pace. Rischenheim sat down by the table,
resting his head on his hand. He was wearied out by strain and
excitement, his wounded arm pained him greatly, and he was full
of horror and remorse at the event which happened unknown to him
the night before.
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