He looked at it much longer
than was needful to read it, stroking down his beard gravely, and I felt
it was not so easy to confute a pupil of the school of Metternich. At
last, folding the note and handing it back, "Has your friend mentioned
Madame Blumenthal's errand at Wiesbaden?" he asked.
"You look very wise. I give it up!" said I.
"She is gone there to make the major follow her. He went by the next
train."
"And has the major, on his side, dropped you a line?"
"He is not a letter-writer."
"Well," said I, pocketing my letter, "with this document in my hand I am
bound to reserve my judgment. We will have a bottle of Johannisberg, and
drink to the triumph of virtue."
For a whole week more I heard nothing from Pickering--somewhat to my
surprise, and, as the days went by, not a little to my discomposure. I
had expected that his bliss would continue to overflow in brief
bulletins, and his silence was possibly an indication that it had been
clouded. At last I wrote to his hotel at Wiesbaden, but received no
answer; whereupon, as my next resource, I repaired to his former lodging
at Homburg, where I thought it possible he had left property which he
would sooner or later send for. There I learned that he had indeed just
telegraphed from Cologne for his luggage.
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