"Where is my brother?"
"Didn't I tell you that Madame d'Artelle fled last night; and did I say she went alone?"
"I don't believe you," he growled, sullenly.
"'Of the laughing eyes,' indeed," I cried, with a shrug. "Your laughter seems to be dead, even if your brother is alive—perhaps it is because of that."
He very nearly swore again; but he was recovering his wits, if not his temper, and managed to sneer instead.
"The oath would have been more natural," I said, promptly. "But since you are shaking off some of your chagrin, you may be ready to listen to me. I have something to say—to propose."
"I ought not to listen to you."
"There is time—until the police come, at any rate. I will confess to one crime—forgery. I wrote that letter to you in Madame d'Artelle's name. I wished to bring you here at once; and I prepared, carefully, this little stage effect for your benefit. Shall I tell you why?"
He waved his hand to imply indifference.
"No, you are not indifferent, Count Gustav. I wished you to understand how really dangerous I am to you—as well as to witness your brotherly grief at seeing Count Karl's dead body"—and I touched the sofa pillow.