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Updated: June 24, 2025
Her landlady could stick the receipt under the door, she reflected, as she locked it. Two blocks down the street, she found, as predicted, the cigar store with the blue sign, "Schulz Express," and left her trunk check there with her address and fifty cents. Then, putting up her umbrella, and glowingly conscious that she was saving a nickel by so doing, she set off down-town afoot to get a job.
As for Kunz and Pottpetschmidt, they had no value outside the friendship they had for Schulz and Schulz for them. Christophe valued them at their proper worth. He wrote to them once and their relation ended there. He tried also to write to Modesta, but she answered with a commonplace letter in which she spoke only of trivialities. He gave up the correspondence.
They went into the woods. Schulz recited verses of Goethe and Moerike. Christophe loved poetry, but he could not remember any, and while he listened he stepped into a vague dream in which music replaced the words and made him forget them. He admired Schulz's memory.
All his troubles had gone from his mind; he felt that he was among true friends and he began to recover. He told them about his journey and his rebuffs in a humorous way; he looked like a schoolboy on holiday. Schulz beamed and devoured him with his eyes and laughed heartily. It was not long before conversation turned upon the secret bond that united the three of them: Christophe's music.
He remembered now that he had not seen Krafft at the Conservatorium for a week or more. Frau Schulz looked astonished to see him, and, holding the door in her hand, made no mien to let him enter. Herr Krafft was away, she said gruffly, had been gone for about a week, she did not know where or why.
For if they were to run away, they knew that the monster would pursue and swallow them whole. So they said, "We must go through a great and dangerous struggle. Boldly ventured, is half won," and all seven grasped the spear, Master Schulz in front, and Veitli behind.
"Euan," the girl asked as she gave him her hand, "who is this man Schulz, do you think?" The King's messenger leant over and whispered: "Secret Service!" "Secret Service!" The girl repeated the words in a hushed voice. "Then Mr. Dulkinghorn ... is he ... that too?" Euan nodded shortly. "One of their leadin' lights!" he answered.
He eagerly took the letter, spread it out on the table, and read it through whilst Herr Schulz looked over his shoulder. "Code, eh?" commented the big man, shaking his head humorously. "If it beats Dulkinghorn, it beats me!" From his note-case Robin now drew a folded square of paper identical in colour with the letter spread out before them.
At bottom there was in Schulz not so much a firm belief as a passionate desire to believe an uncertain hope to which he clung as to a buoy. He sought the confirmation of it in Christophe's eyes. Christophe understood the appeal in the eyes of his friend, who clung to him with touching confidence, imploring him, and dictating his answer.
"I shall be very pleased," the girl replied. "Is it far?" "Only just outside Rotterdam," the voice responded. "Mr. Schulz will send the car to the hotel to pick you up at 11.45. The driver will ask for you. Is that all right?" "Certainly," said Mary. "Please thank Mr. Schulz and tell him I will expect the car at a quarter to twelve!"
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