I gave a little half-nervous start, as though I realized my mistake, and then said, quickly: "I have evidence—this letter of Gareth's."
"You will not have it long, Miss von Dreschler. I could almost be sorry for you; in fact I sympathize with you deeply. Your belief in the imaginary story of your father's wrongs has, I fear, preyed upon your nerves until they have broken down. He deserved his fate, as the murderer of the young Count Stephen; and now you come here to threaten first my brother and then myself. As the daughter of such a man, it was perhaps to be expected; but it is quite sad."
"Are you not forgetting what you said when we last spoke of the subject?"
"Oh, no, not in the least. I said then that I would do my utmost to help you—knowing of course that no help in such a matter could be given. The truth can only be the truth; but I hoped that time and thought and kindness would lead you to see your delusion. I fear I was wrong."
I would have laughed, had I not known that I had now to show signs of nervousness.
"And Gareth?"
"You appear to have hidden that poor girl; but she will of course be found and then she too must be convinced of your unfortunate delusions."
"And will no appeal to your chivalry avail to make you do justice to her? You said you cared for her."
"I was anxious, and I think, rightly anxious, to soothe what I saw was a cause of serious and therefore dangerous excitement in you. She also has misled you; no doubt inadvertently; and your prejudices against my family have warped your judgment until you are really incapable of seeing anything but what is black in me. I am truly distressed for you, believe me." His assumption of pity was almost too much for my sense of humour.
"If by black you mean dishonour and cowardly treachery, I agree. I think you are one of the vilest men that ever lived."