“Yes, that remains to be seen,” said Muller dryly, as he reached for his overcoat.
“You are going before you read what is in the notebook?” asked Commissioner von Mayringen.
Muller nodded. “I want to see the wagon tracks before they are lost; it may help me to discover something else. You can read the book and make any arrangements you find necessary after that.”
Muller was already wrapped in his overcoat. “Is it snowing now?” He turned to Arnster.
“Some flakes were falling as I came here.”
“All right. Come with me and show me the way.” Muller nodded carelessly to his superior officer, his mind evidently already engrossed in thoughts of the interesting case, and hurried out with Amster. The commissioner was quite satisfied with the state of affairs. He knew the case was in safe hands. He seated himself at his desk again and began to read the little book which had come into his hands so strangely. His eyes ran more and more rapidly over the closely written pages, as his interest grew and grew.
When, half an hour later, he had finished the reading, he paced restlessly up and down the room, trying to bring order into the thoughts that rushed through his brain. And one thought came again and again, and would not be denied in spite of many improbabilities, and many strange things with which the book was full; in spite, also, of the varying, uncertain handwriting and style of the message. This one thought was, “This woman is not insane.”
While the young official was pondering over the problem, Muller entered as quietly as ever, bowed, put his hat and cane in their places, and shook the snow off his clothing. He was evidently pleased about something. Kurt von Mayringen did not notice his entrance. He was again at the desk with the open book before him, staring at the mysterious words, “How I was murdered.”
“It is a woman, a lady of position. And if she is mad, then her madness certainly has method.” Muller said these words in his usual quiet way, almost indifferently. The young commissioner started up and snatched for the fine white handkerchief which the detective handed him. A strong sweet perfume filled the room. “It is hers?” he murmured.
“It is hers,” said Muller. “At least we can take that much for granted, for the handkerchief bears the same monogram, A. L., which is on the notebook.”