"Perhaps not—just yet," he returned dryly. "Poor Gustav didn't—but the time came none the less. The man who puts on the mantle of the dead Prince upstairs must look to find little in the pockets except challenges."
"But what of you? Who are you? Why do you tell me this?"
"Because I dislike attending funerals," he replied, with a grim laugh. "Besides, I am a soldier; and it's my business to fight. You have probably heard my name already. I'm the Count von Nauheim, and the late Prince's daughter is my betrothed wife."
"And you mean, I suppose, that all the Prince's wealth will pass to the daughter?"
"That is the Prince's will. And you weren't in time to get him to alter it, you see," he sneered; but I let the sneer pass for the moment.
"Then you will be the head of the family in all but the name—the husband of the daughter, the owner of the wealth, and the guardian of its honor?"
"You can put a point with the clearness of a lawyer," he said.
"Have you, then, fought the man who killed the son Gustav?"
As I asked the question I kept my eyes fixed steadily on his, and all his bluster could not hide his discomfiture.
"These are things you don't understand," he said bruskly. "There is much behind—too much to explain to you."