He had chosen a good place. To the right and to the left were high sand dunes, before him was the broad surface of the ocean, and at his back was rising ground, bare sand with here and there a scraggly bush or a group of high thistles. Herbert Thorne believed himself to be alone here ... as far as a man can be alone over whom hangs the shadow of a crime. He groaned aloud and hid his pale face in his hands.
In his own distress he did not hear the deep sigh - which, just above him on the edge of the knoll, broke from the breast of a woman who was suffering scarcely less than he; he did not know that two pair of sad eyes looked down upon him. And now into the eyes of the watching woman there shot a gleam of terror. For Herbert Thorne had taken a revolver from his pocket and laid it quietly beside him.
Then he took out a notebook and a pencil and placed them beside the weapon. Then slowly, reluctantly, he opened one of the papers.
A light breeze from the shining sea before him carried off the wrapping. The paper which he opened shook in his trembling hands, as his eyes sought the reports of the murder. He gave a sudden start and a tremor ran through his frame. He had come to the spot which told of the arrest of another man, who was under shadow of punishment for the crime which he himself had committed. When he had read this report through, he turned to the other papers. He was quite calm now, outwardly calm at least.
When he had finished reading the papers he laid them in a heap beside him and reached out for his notebook. As he opened it the two watchers saw that between its first pages there was a sealed and addressed letter. Two other envelopes were contained in the notebook, envelopes which were also addressed although still open.
Muller's sharp eyes could read the addresses as Thorne took them up in turn, looking long at each of them. One envelope was addressed in Italian to the Chief of Police of Venice, the other to the Chief of Police in Vienna.
The two watchers leaned forward, scarcely three yards above the man in whom they were interested. Thorne tore out two leaves of his notebook and wrote several lines on each of them. One note, he placed in the envelope addressed to the Viennese police and sealed it carefully. Then he put the sealed letter with the second note in the other envelope, the one addressed to the Italian police. He put all the letters back in his notebook, holding it together with a rubber strap, and replaced it in his pocket.
Then he stretched out his hand toward the revolver.
The sand came rattling down upon him, the thistles bent over creakingly and two figures appeared beside him.
"There's time enough for that yet, Mr. Thorne," said the man at whom the painter gazed up in bewilderment. And then this man took the revolver quietly from his hand and hid it in his own pocket.
Thorne pressed his teeth down on his lips until the blood came. He could not speak; he looked first at the stranger who had mastered him so completely, and then, in dazed astonishment, at the woman who had sunk down beside him in the sand, clasping his hand in both of hers.
"Adele! Adele! 'Why are you here?" he stammered finally.
"I want to be with you - in this hour," she answered, looking at him with eyes of worship. "I want to be with my dear lady - to comfort her - to protect her when - when - ""When they arrest me?" Thorne finished the sentence himself. Then turning to Muller he continued: "And that is why you are here?""Yes, Mr. Thorne. I have a warrant for your arrest in my pocket.
But I think it will be unnecessary to make use of it in the customary official way through the authorities here. I see that you have written to both police stations - confessing your deed.
This will amount to a voluntary giving up of yourself to the authorities, therefore all that is necessary is that I return with you in the same train which takes you to Vienna. But I must ask you for those two letters, for until you yourself give them to the police authorities in my presence, it is my duty to keep them."Muller had seldom found his official duty as difficult as it was now. His words came haltingly and great drops stood out on his forehead.
The painter rose from the sand and he too wiped his face, which was drawn in agony.
"Herbert, Herbert!" cried Adele Bernauer suddenly. "Oh, Herbert, you will live, you will! Promise me, you will not think of suicide, it would kill your wife - "She lay on her knees before him in the sand. He looked down at her gently and with a gesture which seemed to be a familiar one of days long past, he stroked the face that had grown old and worn in these hours of fear for him.
"Yes, you dear good soul, I will live on, I will take upon myself my punishment for killing a scoundrel. The poor man whom they have arrested in my place must not linger in the fear of death. I am ready, sir.
"My name is Muller - detective Muller."
"Joseph Muller, the famous detective Muller?" asked Thorne with a sad smile. "I have had little to do with the police but by chance I have heard of your fame. I might have known; they tell me you are one from whom the truth can never remain hidden.""My duty is not always an easy one," said Muller.
"Thank you. Dispose of me as you will. I do not wish any privileges that others would not have, Mr. Muller. Here is my written confession and here am I myself. Shall we go. now?"Herbert Thorne handed the detective his notebook with its important contents and then walked slowly back along the road he had come.
Muller walked a little behind him, while Mrs. Bernauer was at his side. As in days long past, they walked hand in hand.
