'I a.s.sure you, it has given me the greatest pleasure to meet you,'

answered Greif, holding out his hand.

'The pleasure has been quite upon my side,' returned Rex, bowing with alacrity.

And so they parted, Rex plunging into a shady side street, while Greif continued his walk towards the dining-place of his Korps, thinking as he went, of the queer person he had just seen for the first time. His name was strange, his conversation was unusual, his eyes were most disagreeable, and yet oddly fascinating. Greif thought about him and was not satisfied with his short interview. The man's remark about the future was either that of a visionary, or of an absent-minded person who did not always know what he was saying. Greif himself could hardly understand how he had been led, in a first meeting with one who was altogether a stranger, to speak so plainly of what disturbed him. It was not his custom to make acquaintances at a venture, or to refer to his own affairs with people he did not know. He reflected, however, that he had not committed himself in any way, while admitting that he might easily have been drawn on to do so if the interview had been prolonged.

At dinner he asked his friends whether any of them knew a student whose name was Rex. No one had heard of him, and on learning that he was a man older than the average, they murmured, and said one to another that Greif was beginning to cross the borders of Philistia. After the meal was over, Greif went to his lodgings and tried to work. The sudden anxiety that had seized him in the morning during the lecture grew stronger in solitude, until it was almost unbearable. He pushed aside his books and wrote to his father, inquiring whether anything had happened, in a way which would certainly have surprised old Greifenstein if he himself had been less nervous about the future than he actually was. It was a relief to have written, and Greif returned to his labours more quietly afterwards.

He did not see Rex again in the lecture-room, though his eye wandered along the rows of heads bent down over busy hands that wrote without ceasing. Rex was not among them. He had said that he considered philosophy an amus.e.m.e.nt, and he probably came to the hall where it was taught when the fancy seized him to divert himself. But the desire to talk with him again became stronger, until Greif actually determined to go in search of the man.

The sun had gone down, and he stood at his open window as he had done on the evening of his arrival, watching almost unconsciously for the first stars to shine out above the cathedral spire. The air was very quiet, disturbed by no sound but the swirl of the deep river against the stone piers of the bridge far down below the student's window. There was something melancholy in the ceaseless rush of the strong water, which reminded him of the sighing of the trees at home, on that last morning when he had sat with Hilda at the foot of the Hunger-Thurm. At such a time anything which recalled the circ.u.mstances of the vacation necessarily brought with it an increase in his anxiety. Greif thought of the evening that was before him if he joined his comrades at their usual place of meeting, and the prospect was distasteful. He would be glad to escape from the lights and the noise and the drinking and singing, even from his position of importance among his fellows, who made him their oracle upon all University matters. He would prefer to pa.s.s an hour or two in quiet conversation, in a quiet room, with Rex the student of astronomy and mathematics. He did not know where he lived, nor whether he would be at home at that hour, but it was easy to satisfy his curiosity upon both points.

He found the address he wanted at the Beadle's office. Rex lived in a dark street near the cathedral. Greif climbed many flights of steps, finding his way by striking one match after another. At the top there was but one door. He knocked twice and waited. There was no answer, and he knocked again. He was sure that he could hear some one moving inside the apartment, but the door remained closed. Annoyed at being kept waiting he pounded loudly with the piece of iron and called on Rex by name. He was rewarded at last by hearing footsteps within.

'Who are you?' asked an angry voice. 'And why are you making such a hideous noise?'

'My name is von Greifenstein,' replied Greif, 'and I want to see Herr Rex.'

He was preparing for a disagreeable encounter with some unknown person, when the door opened quickly and he found himself face to face with Rex himself. His expression was bland in the extreme as he held up the light he carried and greeted his guest.

'I beg your pardon,' he said in tones very unlike those Greif had just heard. 'I had no idea that it was you. Pray come in.'

'I am afraid I am disturbing you,' answered Greif, hesitating as though he had forgotten the tremendous energy he had put into his knocking.

'Not at all, not at all,' repeated Rex, carefully fastening the door when Greif had entered. 'You see I am a newcomer and have no friends here,' he continued apologetically, 'and I did not imagine that you knew my address.'

After pa.s.sing through a narrow pa.s.sage, Greif found himself in a large room with three windows. It was evident that Herr Rex lived more luxuriously than most students, for there was no bed in the place, and an open door showed that there was at least one other apartment beyond.

A couple of bookcases were well filled with volumes, and there was a great heap of others upon the floor in the corner. Two large easy-chairs stood on opposite sides of the porcelain stove, which at that season was of course not in use. A broad table in the centre was covered with books, many of them new, and papers covered with notes or figures were strewn amongst them in the greatest disorder. Near one of the windows Greif noticed a writing-desk, upon which lay a few drawing and writing materials and a large sheet of paper. It was clear that Rex had been at work here, for a bright lamp stood upon the desk and its strong light fell from beneath the green shade upon the mathematical figure that had absorbed the student's attention.

'It is a very quiet lodging,' remarked Rex, drawing forward one of the arm-chairs and then seating himself in the other. 'It is just what I wanted. I do not like noise when I am reading.'

Greif did not exactly know what to say. To visit a student in his rooms when he had only met him once, was a new experience, and Rex's stony blue eyes seemed to ask the object of his coming. It was evident that Rex only spoke of his habitation in order to break a silence which might have been awkward.

'The fact is,' said Greif, as though answering a direct question, 'I have been thinking of what you said the other day.'

'You do my remarks an honour which I believe they have never received before,' replied Rex, bending his handsome head and smiling in his brown beard.

'Do you remember? I said that I needed only one thing to make me happy.

I wanted to know the future. You answered that it must be easy to get my wish. Were you in earnest, or did you speak thoughtlessly? That is what I came to ask you.'

'Indeed?' Rex laughed. 'You said to yourself that your acquaintance was either a fool or an absent-minded person, did you not?'

'Well--' Greif hesitated and smiled. 'Either visionary or absent-minded,' he admitted. 'Yes, I could not explain your remark in any other way.'

'Of course you could not, unless you suspected that I might be a charlatan.'

'That did not occur to me--'

'It might have occurred to you, considering what I had said. It might occur to you now, if I answered your question. But on the other hand it is of no importance whether it does or not. My reply will contribute to your peace of mind by helping you to catalogue a man you do not know among the fools and charlatans of whom you have heard. Would you like to know the future? I can tell it to you, if you please.'

'The vortex, I suppose,' answered Greif rather scornfully.

'Yes. I can tell you the direction of the vortices of which you are composed, for a time, while they are on their way to join other vortices in the dance of death. The vortices do nothing but dance, spin and whirl for ever through life, the farce; through death, the tragedy and through all the eternity of the epilogue. What do you wish to know?'

'You are jesting!' exclaimed Greif moodily. 'I wish you would be in earnest.'

'In earnest!' cried Rex contemptuously. 'What is earnestness?'

He rose and went to the desk upon which the lamp was burning, opened it and took a fresh sheet of paper from within. Greif watched him with considerable indifference. He had not found what he had sought and he already meditated a retreat. Rex paid no attention to him, but rapidly described a circle upon the paper and divided it into twelve parts with a ruler.

'Do you remember the date of the day we met?' he asked, looking up.

'It was a Monday,' replied Greif, wondering what his companion was doing.

'That will do. I have a calendar,' said Rex.

He consulted an almanac which he drew from his pocket, made a few short calculations, and jotted down certain signs and figures in various parts of the divided circle. When he had finished he looked attentively at what he had done. The whole operation had occupied about a quarter of an hour.

'I do not wonder that you are anxious,' he remarked, as he resumed his seat in the easy-chair, still holding the sheet of paper in his hand.

'What have you discovered?' inquired Greif, with an incredulous smile.

'You are threatened by a great calamity, you and all who belong to you,'

replied Rex. 'I suppose you know it, and that is the reason why you want to know the future.'

Greif's cheek turned slowly pale, not at the announcement, but at the thought that this chance student perhaps knew of Rieseneck's existence, and of all that his return might involve.

'Herr Rex,' he said sternly, 'be good enough to tell me what you know of me and my family from other sources than that bit of paper.'

'Not much,' answered the other with a dry laugh. 'I barely knew of your existence until I met you the other day, and I have not mentioned you nor heard your name spoken since.'

'Why then, you can know nothing, and your figures cannot tell you,' said Greif, not yet certain whether to feel relief at the protestation of ignorance, or to doubt its veracity.

'Shall I tell you what I see here?'

'Tell me the nature of the calamity.'

'Its nature, or the cause of it?' inquired Rex, scrutinising the sheet of paper.

'I suppose that they must be closely connected. Let me know the cause first--it will be the surest test.'

Rex laid the paper upon his knee, and folded his hands, looking his guest in the face.

'Herr von Greifenstein, this is a very serious matter,' he said, 'If I tell you what I have just discovered, you will certainly believe that I knew it all before, and that I am acting a comedy. You must either bind yourself to put faith in my innocence, or we must drop this affair and talk of something else.'

Greif was silent for some moments. To refuse was to insult a man of whom he had gratuitously asked a question. To promise with the intention of keeping his word was impossible. He found himself in an awkward dilemma.

Rex helped him out of it with his usual skill.

'I will tell you what is pa.s.sing in your mind, and why you are silent,'