The Count smiled at his manner of expressing himself, but all four
of the men had already begun to feel sympathy and respect for this
quiet-mannered little person whose words were so few and whose
voice was so gentle. Something in his grey eyes and in the quiet
determination of his manner made them realise that he had won his
fame honestly. With the enthusiasm of his race the Hungarian Count
pressed the detective's hand in a warm grasp as he said: "I know
that we can trust in you. You will avenge the death of my old
friend and of those others who were killed here. The doctor and
the magistrate will tell you about them to-morrow. We two will go
home now. Telegraph us as soon as anything has happened. Every
one in the village will be ready to help you and of course you can
call on me for funds. Here is something to begin on." With these
words the Count laid a silk purse full of gold pieces on the table.
One more pressure of the hand and he was gone. The other men also
left the room, following the Count's lead in a cordial farewell of
the detective. They also shared the nobleman's feeling that now
indeed, with this man to help them, could the cloud of horror that
had hung over the village for two years, and had culminated in
the present catastrophe, be lifted.

The excitement of the Count's departure had died away and the steps
of the other men on their way to the village had faded in the
distance. There was nothing now to be heard but the rustling of
the leaves and the creaking of the boughs as the trees bent before
the onrush of the wind. Muller stood alone, with folded arms, in
the middle of the large room, letting his sharp eyes wander about
the circle of light thrown by the lamps. He was glad to be alone
--for only when he was alone could his brain do its best work. He
took up one of the lamps and opened the door to the room in which,