"One cannot tell," he remarked. "Even the cleverest women have their
interludes. I rather fancy, though, that this time the lady has something
more in her mind."
At four o'clock I presented myself at the door of an entry at the address
which had been given me. An untidy-looking girl pointed out to me some
stairs, over which was a hand pointing downwards, and a notice--
"MAX SONNEBERG'S RIFLE RANGE."
I descended the stairs, and found myself in a sort of cellar with two
tubelike arrangements, down one of which a young man was shooting. Mr.
Sonneberg rose slowly from a chair and came towards me.
"Paul Schmidt, is it not?" he asked.
I nodded.
"I was told to come here at four o'clock," I said.
"Quite right. Now tell me, what is this?" he asked, taking from a seat
near and placing in my hand a weapon, similar to the one with which the
boy was shooting.
I handled it curiously.
"It is a service rifle, reduced size," I remarked.
He nodded.
"Let me see you load it!" he directed, pointing to a box of cartridges.
I obeyed him without hesitation.
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