Tony closed his notebook.

“At that point the wench fell down in a fit, frothing at the mouth.”

“No doubt.” Blankenhagen shook his head disgustedly. “The superstitions of the time encouraged hysteria.”

“Oh, God,” I said, suddenly sick. “Remember what Irma said at the séance? Das Feuer…”

Blankenhagen surged to his feet with an angry exclamation.

“Enough of this morbidity! If that poor girl hears a word of this frightful story—”

“She already knows it,” I said. “At least I would prefer to think that, rather than admit the alternative.”

I was right, of course, but it wasn’t the most tactful thing I could have said. Blankenhagen cursed splendidly in German, using a few expressions I had never encountered before, and went storming off through the shrubbery.

“I don’t blame him,” I groaned. “I’m beginning to lose my nerve too. You know something, Tony? This isn’t fun anymore.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m just trying to sound like a heroine,” I said meekly. “I know I’m the wrong size, but I figured. I could try to sound sort of imbecilic and clinging and scared….”

“Ho ho,” said Tony, baring his teeth. “Who says you’re the heroine?”

“All right, I’ll let Irma be the heroine. But there are times when I think she qualifies for another role.”

It was Tony’s turn to swear. He wasn’t as inventive as Blankenhagen, but he was louder, and finally he stalked off, leaving me alone with my thoughts—which were not good company.

I was beginning to look forward to mealtime at the Schloss. A girl my size needs her nourishment, but that wasn’t the only reason. In the dining room I met friends and enemies and assorted suspects; I could study Irma to see how far she was from a nervous breakdown. Mealtime was when the Gräfin sent forth her invitations. Oh, yes, mealtime was fun time, all right.

Dinner that night was comparatively dull. Irma looked pretty good, and there was no word from the Gräfin, not even an invitation to a small intimate exorcism. Blankenhagen was still sulking; he practically bit my head off when I made a casual remark about the weather. Tony was just as mean. He was seething about something, and I gathered that the something involved George Nolan, from the way Tony ignored him. George was in a splendid mood. He babbled on, quite entertainingly, about Veit Stoss and Tilman Riemenschneider and other German sculptors. I got to the point where I thought if I heard Riemenschneider’s name pronounced just once more I would rise up and smite George over the head with my plate. To make the gloom complete, it started to rain, which ended my plans for a stroll through the quaint old streets of Rothenburg after dark.

When we adjourned to the lounge, I managed to take Tony aside.

“What ails you? Somebody hurt your feelings?”