He found the kitchen empty. A servant girl entered as he stood there, bewildered and gaping.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, wincing even as he spoke from the echo inside his skull caused by his own voice.

“Your mother is out, mein Herr,” answered the girl.

“I can see that!” he snapped. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know, mein Herr.”

“Well, get me some coffee then!” Gustav demanded. “And make sure it’s strong.”

“Yes, mein Herr.”

“And be quick about it, you young fool,” barked Gustav rudely. “Bring it to me on the patio.”

The girl disappeared. Such treatment had brought tears to her eyes a year ago just after she had been hired at the Schmundt villa. She was used to it now, however, and took it as a matter of course.

Thirty minutes later, beginning to piece together fragments of what had happened the night before, Gustav left the house, head still splitting but some of the other remaining effects of the alcohol beginning to be moderated by the dark roasted coffee his father imported from France.

He went to the garage and started up his father’s old car, which no one used much anymore. Satisfied that it was driveable, he pulled it outside, then, leaving it idling, went to find one of the men around the place, whom he told of the previous night’s mishap, giving him orders to haul his car out of the ditch and back to the house.

Then he jumped back into the old automobile and sped off toward the village. He hoped the fellow hadn’t left for Berlin yet and might still be at the inn.

Gustav’s mother was trying to find a way to excuse herself. She had had all she could stand of Baron von Dortmann’s ridiculous pretending to be nice. She knew his game and didn’t believe those smiles of his for a second!

“I rarely see Ernst these days, Ingrid,” Heinrich was saying. “His business in Berlin must be on a high level.”

“A very high level, Baron,” answered the countess.

“Is he considering a role in the government? I had heard he was asked.”

“His interest is primarily with the Luftwaffe. He flew in the Great War, you know.”

“Yes, I did know that. A post under Göring, perhaps?”

“You will have to ask him that yourself, Baron von Dortmann.”

She stood abruptly. “I must get back home,” she said. “That is, Marion,” she added, turning to her friend, who was seated next to the baron, “if you’re sure you need no help with your visitors.”

“No visitors, Frau Schmundt!” said Heinrich, rising quickly and offering her a shake of his hand. “Except yourself, of course!” he added, laughing.

Marion rose and stood beside her husband. “Thank you for coming, Ingrid,” she said sincerely. “It was very thoughtful of you. I hope you know you are always welcome here.”

The countess said nothing in reply.