“What time do we meet?”

It was about midnight when we took up our vigil in the cemetery. We had some difficulty finding a place that wasn’t already occupied. It was behind a low wall, shadowed by two funereal trees. We could have been closer to the steward’s grave, but I refused to move. I have few superstitions, but I try to avoid lying on graves when I possibly can.

After we were settled I glanced uneasily at the sky. The moon was almost full, but the sky to the west was overcast, and from time to time clouds obscured the moon and left the graveyard quite dark. The night was warm, but damp lingered in the earth under the tree, and the blanket I had brought was useful.

Tony keeps insisting, with maddening monotony, that what happened was not his fault. Now I don’t hold him accountable for meteorological phenomena. The dark cloud that hid the moon around 2 A.M. was more or less unexpected and undeniably uncontrollable. But the fact remains that if he had been paying attention…I’m perfectly willing to admit I wasn’t paying attention either. All I want him to do is shoulder half the blame.

It was not until we heard the creak of hinges that we realized what was going on. Even then things might have worked out if Tony had kept his head. Instead of moving slowly and quietly, he leaped to his feet, planting a knee in my stomach in the process. I grunted.

The scuffle was warning enough for the grave robber. I had only a glimpse of a dark form leaving the grounds at impressive speed. Tony started in pursuit and lost valuable time by falling into the hole that had been excavated. When he realized where he was, he got out with considerable alacrity. The moon was still hidden, and he cursed it fluently, without noticeable results.

I had caught up with him by that time, having recovered my breath while he was floundering around in the open grave.

“Hurry,” I yelled. “Street outside is lighted… we can see…”

We couldn’t see our quarry, but we could hear him. Cemeteries are notoriously quiet places, especially in the middle of the night. From the sounds, the man seemed to be heading for the gate on Ansbacher Strasse.

As we had already ascertained, the gate was locked. I didn’t expect it to detain our agile adversary for long, however. He was over the gate before we reached the spot. Our progress had been frustratingly slow; even if I had had no qualms about stepping on graves, the stones were close together and the paths were winding. We got over the gate, in our turn, leaving a piece of my slacks on the spikes.