ere 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