Rudi performed introductions. “My friends Kraftstein”—the big Prussian clicked his heels—“de Gautet”—a bow from the sinister Scaramouche—“and Bersonin”—the bald ugly one barely nodded. “Like you and me, they are military men, as you see. You’ll find they are devoted to your welfare and er…safekeeping,” says Master Rudi pleasantly, “and any one of them is almost as tough as I am, nicht wahr?”

“Ich glaube es,” says the sleek de Gautet, showing his teeth. Another confident bastard, and decidedly unpleasant.

While he and Kraftstein stayed talking with Rudi, I was conveyed to a room on the second floor by Bersonin, and while he kept a bleak eye on me I was graciously permitted to change, wash, and eat a meal which the ancient butler brought. It was tolerable food, with an excellent Rhenish, and I invited the taciturn Bersonin to join me in a glass, but he shook his head. I tried my German on him, but getting nothing but grunts for my pains I turned my back on him and devoted myself to my meal. If he wanted to play the jailer, he could be treated like one.

Presently back comes Master Rudi, very debonair in a clean shirt, freshly-pressed breeches and polished boots, with the Brothers Grimm, Kraftstein and de Gautet, at his heels.

“All fed and watered?” says he. “Capital. I can see you two have been getting along famously. I trust our good Bersonin hasn’t overwhelmed you with his inconsequential chatter. No?” He grinned impudently at Bersonin, who shrugged and scowled. “My, what a madcap he is,” went on Rudi, who had evidently dined too, and was back at the top of his most amiable form. “Well, come along with me, and we’ll see what other entertainment this charming establishment can offer.”

“All the entertainment I want is to find out what the devil I’m doing here,” says I.

“Oh, you haven’t long to wait now,” says he, and he conducted me down the corridor, up another stairway, and into a long gallery. Just as we set foot in it, there sounded from somewhere ahead of us the unmistakeable crack of a pistol-shot; I jumped, but Rudi only grinned over his shoulder.

“Rats,” says he. “The place is thick with ’em. We’ve tried poison and dogs, but our host believes in more direct methods. There he goes again,” he added, as another shot sounded. “They must be out in force tonight.”

He paused in front of a stout, metal-studded door. “Here we are,” cries he, throwing it wide, and waving me in. “Your patience is rewarded.”

It was a fine, spacious room, far better appointed than anything I had seen so far, with carpet on the flags, a bright fire in the huge grate, solid-looking leather furniture, several shelves of books round the panelled walls, and a long, narrow polished table running down the centre under a brilliant candelabra. At the far end of the table sat a man, his feet cocked up on the board, reloading a long pistol, and at the sight of him I stopped as though I had walked into a wall. It was Otto von Bismarck.