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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. Berner led the visitor to the door. As he was opening it, Muller asked: "Has Egon Langen a bad scar on his right cheek?" Berner's eyes looked his astonishment. How did the stranger know this?
Fellner has been ill in bed several days, quite seriously ill, they tell me. The janitor seems very fond of him. "Hm 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." 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.
He twisted his soft hat in his hands in evident embarrassment, and his eyes wandered helplessly about the great bare room. "Who are you?" demanded the commissioner. "My name is Dummel, sir, Johann Dummel." "And your occupation?" "My occupation? Oh, yes, I I am a valet, valet to Professor Fellner." The commissioner sat up and looked interested. He knew Fellner personally and liked him.
"But he is ill, and the doctor " "Please wake him up. I will take the responsibility." "But who are you?" asked the janitor. 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 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." "My God, is it possible? Can't we help the poor young lady?" "We will try to help her, or if it is too late, we will at least avenge her.
Fellner had been buried and his possessions taken into custody by the authorities until his heirs should appear. The dead man's papers and affairs were in excellent condition and the arranging of the inheritance had been quickly done. Until the heirs should take possession, the apartment was sealed by the police.
"She has a fortune of over three hundred thousand guldens, and considerable land." "Has she any relatives?" "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." The detective gave an exclamation of surprise. "Why are you astonished at this?" asked Fellner.
The janitor knocked on one of the doors, which was opened in a few moments by an old woman. "Is it the telegram?" she asked sleepily. "Yes," said the janitor. "No," said Muller, "but I want to speak to Mr. Fellner." The two old people stared at him in surprise. "To speak to him?" said the woman, and shook her head as if in doubt. "Is it about Miss Langen?" "Yes, please wake him."
"Yes, yes, you do it." Even the usually indifferent old chief of police was breathing more hastily now. Muller took a roll of paper and a small pistol out of his pocket. He unrolled the paper, which represented the figure of a French soldier with a marked target on the breast. The detective pinned the paper on the back of the chair in which Professor Fellner had been seated when he met his death.
He was rather astonished at the evident costliness of the garment the young man handed him, and when he spoke of it, the valet could not say enough in praise of the kindness of his late master. He pulled out several other articles of clothing, which, like the overcoat, had been given to him by Fellner. Then he packed up a few necessities and announced himself as ready to start.
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