The Face and the Mask by Robert Barr (books to read in your 20s female .txt) 📕

will make it even by dining with you. We can thus compare table d’hôtes.”

Baumgarten improved on acquaintance in spite of his foppishness in dress. I almost forgot Johnson until one day I was reminded of him one day by Baumgarten saying, “I leave to-night for Innsbruck.”

“Innsbruck? Why, that’s where Johnson is. You ought to meet him. He’s an awfully good fellow. A little careless about his clothes, that’s all.”

“I should like to meet him. I know no one in Innsbruck. Do you happen to know the name of his hotel?”

“I do not. I don’t even know Johnson’s first name. But I’ll write you a note of introduction on my card, and if you should come across him, give him my regards.”

Baumgarten accepted the card with thanks, and we parted.

Next day, being warm, I sat on a bench in the shade listening to the music. Now that Baumgarten had gone, I was meditating on his strange resemblance to Johnson, and remembering things. Someone sat down beside me, but I paid no attention to him. Finally he said: “This seems to be a very good band.”

I started at the sound of his voice, and looked at him too much astonished to reply.

He wore a moustache, but no whiskers, and a green Tyrolese felt hat with a feather in it. An alpenstock leaned against the bench beside him, its iron point in the gravel. He wore knickerbockers; in fact, his whole appearance was that of the conventional mountaineer-tourist. But the voice! And the expression of the eyes!

“What did you say?”

“I said the band is very good.”

“Oh, yes. Quite so. It’s expensive, and it ought to be good. I’m helping to pay for it. By the way, you arrived this morning, I take it?”

“I came last night.”

“Oh, indeed. And you depart in a few days for Innsbruck?”

“No, I go to Salzburg when I leave here.”

“And your name isn’t Johnson—or—or Baumgarten, by any chance?”

“It is not.”

“You come neither from Chicago nor Hanover?”

“I have never been in America, nor do I know Hanover. Anything else?”

“Nothing else. It’s all right. It’s none of my business, of course.”

“What is none of your business?”

“Who are you.”

“Oh, there’s no secret about that. I am a Russian. My name is Katzoff. At least, these are the first and last syllables of my name. I never use my full name when I travel; it is too complicated.”

“Thanks. And how do you account for your perfect English? Educated in England, I presume? Baumgarten was.”

“No, I was not. You know we Russians are reputed to be good linguists.”

“Yes, I had forgotten that. We will now return to the point from which we started. The band is excellent, and it is about to play one of four favorite selections, Mr. Katzburg.”

“Katzoff is the name. As to the selection, I don’t know much about music, although I am fond of popular pieces.”

Katzoff and I got along very nicely, although I did not seem to like him as well as either Johnson or Baumgarten. He left for Salzburg without bidding me good-bye. Missing him one day, I called at the Angleterre, and the porter told me he had gone.

Next day I searched for him, wondering in what garb I should find him. I passed him twice as he sat on the bench, before I was sure enough to accost him. The sacrifice of his moustache had made a remarkable difference. His clean-shaven face caused him to look at least ten years younger. He wore a tall silk hat, and a long black morning coat. I found myself hardly able to withdraw my eyes from the white spats that partially covered his polished boots. He was reading an English paper, and did not observe my scrutiny. I approached him.

“Well, Johnson,” I said, “this is a lay out. You’re English this time, I suppose?”

The man looked up in evident surprise. Fumbling around the front of his waistcoat for a moment, he found a black silk string, which he pulled, bringing to his hand a little round disc of glass. This he stuck in one eye, grimacing slightly to keep it in place, and so regarded me apparently with some curiosity. My certainty that it was Johnson wavered for a moment, but I braved it out.

“That monocle is a triumph, Johnson. In combination with the spats it absolutely staggers me. If you had tried that on as Baumgarten I don’t know that I should have recognized you. Johnson, what’s your game?”

“You seem to be laboring under some delusion,” he said at last. “My name is not Johnson. I am Lord Somerset Campbell, if you care to know.”

“Really? Oh, well, that’s all right. I’m the Duke of Argyll, so we must be relatives. Blood is thicker than water, Campbell. Confess. Whom have you murdered?”

“I knew,” said his lordship, slowly, “that the largest lunatic asylum in the Tyrol is near here, but I was not aware that the patients were allowed to stroll in the Kurpark.”

“That’s all very well, Johnson, but——”

“Campbell, if you please.”

“I don’t please, as it happens. This masquerade has gone on long enough. What’s your crime? Or are you on the other side of the fence? Are you practising the detective business?”

“My dear fellow, I don’t know you, and I resent your impertinent curiosity. Allow me to wish you good-day.”

“It won’t do, Johnson, it has gone too far. You have played on my feelings, and I won’t stand it. I’ll go to the authorities and relate the circumstances. They are just suspicious enough to——”

“Which? The authorities or the circumstances?” asked Johnson, sitting down again.

“Both, my dear boy, both, and you know it. Now, Johnson, make a clean breast of it, I won’t give you away.”

Johnson sighed, and his glass dropped from his eye. He looked around cautiously. “Sit down,” he said.

“Then you are Johnson!” I cried, with some exultation.

“I thought you weren’t very sure,” began Johnson. “However, it doesn’t matter, but you should be above threatening a man. That was playing it low down.”

“I see you’re from Chicago. Go on.”

“It’s all on account of this accursed visitors’ tax. That I decline to pay. I stay just under the week at a hotel, and then take a ‘bus to the station, and another ‘bus to another hotel. Of course my mistake