The Schwarza
was frozen, the castle of Liechtenstein was gray against a white
world. A little pilgrimage church far below seemed snowed in
against the faithful. The third-class compartment filled with
noisy skiing parties. The old woman opened her oilcloth bundle,
and taking a cat out of a box inside fed it a sausage.
Up and up, past the Weinzettelwand and the Station Breitenstein,
across the highest viaduct, the Kalte Rinne, and so at last to
Semmering.
The glow had died at last for Peter. He did not like his errand,
was very vague, indeed, as to just what that errand might be. He
was stiff and rather cold. Also he thought the cat might stifle
in the oilcloth, but the old woman too clearly distrusted him to
make it possible to interfere. Anyhow, he did not know the German
for either cat or oilcloth.
He had wired Stewart; but the latter was not at the station. This
made him vaguely uneasy, he hardly knew why. He did not know
Stewart well enough to know whether he was punctilious in such
matters or not: as a matter of fact he hardly knew him at all. It
was because he had appealed to him that Peter was there, it being
only necessary to Peter to be needed, and he was anywhere.
The Pension Waldheim was well up the mountains. He shouldered his
valise and started up--first long flights of steps through the
pines, then a steep road. Peter climbed easily. Here and there he
met groups coming down, men that he thought probably American,
pretty women in "tams" and sweaters.
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