"Well, old chap, to tell you the truth, even though I've got such a comfortable and lucrative post, I'm, even after these years, considerably mystified." "How?" "By the real nature of the Baron's business." "Oh, he's a mysterious person, is he?" "Very. Though I'm his confidential secretary, and deal with his affairs in his absence, yet in some matters he is remarkably close, as though he fears me." "You live always in Budapest, I suppose?" "No. In summer we are at the country house, a big place overlooking the Danube outside Semlin, and commanding a wide view of the great Hungarian plain." "The Baron transacts his business there, eh?" "From there or from Budapest. His business is solely with an office in the Boulevard des Capucines in Paris, and a registered telegraphic address also in Paris." "Well, there's nothing very mysterious in that, surely. Some business matters must, of necessity, be conducted with secrecy." "I know all that, my dear fellow, but--" and he hesitated, as though fearing to take his friend into his confidence. "But what?" "Well--but there, no! You'd laugh at me if I told you the real reason of my uneasiness." "I certainly won't, my dear Hamilton," Murie assured him. "We are friends to-day, dear old chap, just as we were at college. Surely it is not the place of a man to poke fun at his friend?" The argument was apparently convincing. The Baron's secretary smoked on in thoughtful silence, his eyes fixed upon the wall in front of him. "Well," he said at last, "if you promise to view the matter in all seriousness, I'll tell you. Briefly, it's this. Of course, you've never been to Semlin--or Zimony, as they call it in the Magyar tongue. To understand aright, I must describe the place. In the extreme south of Hungary, where the river Save joins the Danube, the town of Semlin guards the frontier. Upon a steep hill, five kilometres from the town, stands the Baron's residence, a long, rather inartistic white building, which, however, is very luxuriously furnished. Comparatively modern, it stands near the ruins of a great old castle of Hetzendorf, which commands a wide sweep of the Danube. Now, amid those ruins strange noises are sometimes heard, and it is said that upon all who hear them falls some terrible calamity. I'm not superstitious, but I've heard them--on three occasions! And somehow--well, somehow--I cannot get rid of an uncanny feeling that some catastrophe is to befall me! I can't go back to Semlin. I'm unnerved, and dare not return there." "Noises!" cried Walter Murie. "What are they like?" he asked quickly, starting from his chair, and staring at his friend. "They seem to emanate from nowhere, and are like deep but distant whispers. So plain they were that I could have sworn that some one was speaking, and in English, too!" "Does the baron know?" "Yes, I told him, and he appeared greatly alarmed. Indeed, he gave me leave of absence to come home to England."