“What do you see, Varick? Where are you going?”

I put out a restraining hand as the Baron von Richthoven brushed past me and out into the corridor of the first-class carriage of the train. I followed him as he moved toward the steps down to the platform of the Heidelberg rail station. The train had stopped here en route from where we started in Berlin—leaving hurriedly—and where we were headed in Munich. It was a time of retreat, and Varick had chosen his secret hunting chalet near Füssen, the Bavarian Alps, as his place of hiding—and hunting—at least for now. I had accompanied him to try to protect him from himself and because I didn’t have any other choice.

“I wouldn’t suggest leaving the train, Varick,” I called out to him as he was doing just that, his black silk cape billowing around his tall, trim body. “We have no idea how long the train will stand at this station.” I was speaking to his back, as he moved along the platform, his attention riveted over to the shadows of an iron column three tracks down that was helping to hold up the canopy over the concourse separating the end of the tracks from the station building. His gold lion-headed walking stick provided a staccato beat to his progress. He was an imposing man, dark and hawk-like while still being uncannily handsome. He still was in his forties—or so at least it appeared—although looking somewhat younger, and, as I well knew, he clearly was charismatic.

Neither that nor his title had kept him out of trouble in Berlin, however.

Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks and I almost ran into him. “There. Over there. See him, Otto?” He was pointing with his stick toward where his attention had been focused ever since he stood in our train compartment and gazed out of the window.

“No, Varick. You promised restraint. No more at least until we reach Füssen. You will have more free rein there to do as you wish, as you need.” The young man—I knew it was the young man who Varick was focused on—was beautiful. His smile was radiant as he looked up into the face of his companion who had pulled him close into an embrace—obviously a farewell embrace. The young man’s curly blond hair was tussled and, in the beams of light filtering through the translucent glass canopy onto the platform, it looked like his head was swathed in a halo. He wasn’t tall, but he was perfectly formed. His clothes were those of a student, albeit an affluent one. Heidelberg was the home of a major university. It was at the end of a term, and it could be reasonably speculated that he was a student returning home and bidding farewell to a lover.