"We must look higher," I whispered to Bertram as we began our climb. The next floor, however, was as barren as its predecessor, and now only the top remained to us. The last flight of stairs was somewhat narrower than the others, and there was an awkward turn in it, which would have been just the spot to have served as a hiding-place for an enemy. We passed it, however, in safety, and at last stood upon the top landing of that strange house. Here there were only two doors. One was in the rear, while the other overlooked the street. Once more recalling the wording of the letter, we decided upon investigating the latter room first. This must be the chamber in which the light we had observed from the street was located. Our revolvers ready in our hands, we approached the door, and I turned the handle.
When we entered the room it was a strange and terrible picture we had before us. The room was only a small one. Its furniture consisted of a bed and two chairs, one of which was overturned upon the floor, a large box, which also served as a table, a bucket, and a number of medicine bottles. Upon the bed lay the body of poor Max, while, half-supported upon the bed and half-resting upon the floor, was the figure of a man lying face downwards. Stepping softly across the room, as if I feared I might wake them, I approached the stranger, for a stranger to me he certainly was. By this time Bertram had also approached the bed, and was leaning over me in order to examine him. Suddenly he uttered a cry and staggered back, as if he had received a blow.
"My God!" he cried. "What does this mean? Am I going mad?"
"What is it, man?" I inquired, springing to my feet and wondering what fresh horror he was going to bring to light.
Once more he advanced towards the bed. His face was ashen in its pallor as he stooped over the dead man.
"It's Moreas!" he said. "Good God, it's Moreas!"
"Moreas!" I repeated, as if I could scarcely believe I heard aright. "How can it be Moreas? Did you not tell me that Max shot him on the plains where they found the diamonds?"
"Yet it is Moreas sure enough," Bertram asserted, still speaking in the same strained voice. "And see, he has been stabbed from behind. This is Rodriguez's handiwork."
He continued to stare from one dead man to the other, as if he were still unable to comprehend the situation. As for me, I had no attention to spare for anyone or anything save that I had once more recovered what had been lost, and that I must act without loss of time. At last I made up my mind as to what was best to be done.
"Return to the palace at once," I said to Bertram, who by this time had somewhat recovered his presence of mind, "and send Strekwitz to me. Afterwards go on to the Count von Marquart's house. He must see the archbishop and arrange the matter of the real burial without delay. It must take place within the next few hours; at any rate, before dawn. Go now as quickly as you can, and when you have seen them return to me here."
"But to leave your Majesty here with——" he began.
I cut him short.
"Never mind me," I replied. "I shall be quite safe. Hasten away to fulfil your errand. There is no time to lose."
Very reluctantly he did as I commanded him, and I heard him go down the stairs and presently leave the house.
In something less than an hour Strekwitz arrived with Bertram following close upon his heels. The latter had seen Von Marquart, who, in his turn, had set off to arrange matters with the archbishop. Within an hour of our entering the room for the first time, everything was settled. From Von Marquart, who received us at the archbishop's palace, I learnt that the good old man had been greatly pained at the news the count had communicated to him. Nevertheless, he was quite agreed that the course we had adopted was the best, both for State and personal reasons. Realising that the fewer people who became cognisant of our secret the less chance there would be of its becoming public property, he took the direction of affairs into his own hands. It was he who unlocked the postern door and admitted our party to the cathedral. It was he who waited with me in the sacristy while the necessary arrangements were being made for the interment, and who conducted me through the great building, so vast and eerie in the light of the lantern he carried in his hand, into the little chapel near the vault. A short service followed, then Maximilian of Pannonia was carried by loving hands, and placed in his last resting-place in the vaults below. When all was over, like a band of conspirators we left the cathedral, and with the archbishop's blessing ringing in my ears, I returned to the palace, to obtain what rest I could before I should be called upon to begin the duties of the day. Dawn was breaking as we let ourselves in; a soft grey light stole across the heavens like an augury of still happier days to come.
And now a few words of explanation before I put down my pen.
It was only after the most careful inquiries had been made, and when we had put together the various items of information we had been able to obtain, that we were in a position to derive any notion as to how, where, and why the dastardly plot, that had caused me so much unhappiness, had been carried out. That Max had not shot Moreas in Brazil, as he had imagined, was only too certain; though how the latter managed to escape from the plain, and ultimately to track his enemy to Zaarfburg, is not quite clear. One thing is certain, however. He must have discovered Rodriguez, possibly in Rio de Janeiro, have heard from him of the curious marks Max had cut upon his chest, after leaving the plain, and having convinced himself that they referred to the cache of diamonds, he had determined to spare no effort to get possession of the information he required. Unfortunately for his own schemes, he fell ill in Pannonia, en route to Zaarfburg. Finding himself unable to push on, Rodriguez was dispatched to the city in hot haste. On the night of his arrival the body was stolen from the clockmaker's house, with the assistance of one of the family, who had been heavily bribed. Pretending that it was the body of his brother, who had perished in the war, he brought it to the capital, and to the house where Moreas lay hidden in the Buchengasse. There the latter was able to read the signs, which were unintelligible to Rodriguez, for the reason that he was not familiar with the topography of that villainous plain. What happened after that is only conjecture. Doubtless, the two men had quarrelled, when Rodriguez, taking advantage of an opportunity that presented itself, stabbed the other in the back, and then fled for his life. And so ends the life story of my brother, the man I loved best in the world; he who, had he lived, would have been Maximilian, King of Pannonia.
And now, as it is possible there may be some who have been induced to take an interest in myself and my fortunes, let me bring my long story to a close by saying that if there is any country in Europe that boasts a happier sovereign than does Pannonia, I do not know it. No man's life, however, is altogether free from trouble; but in these days, thank God, I fancy I have less than most men. I have a good wife and happy, healthy children, the eldest of whom, little Max, bids fair to equal his ever-lamented uncle, the National Hero, in disposition and good looks. In one thing, however, he differs from poor Max; low down between his eyebrows are two curious little lines, that form something not unlike a cross.
"Superstition or not," says my sweet wife, "I can only say that I am glad it is there."
Then for my edification she proceeds to recite the old distich:—
So long as Michael's cross doth fit."