"Then I am not to hear about it now?"
"Yes, what you are asking about? Oh, yes. I only had not got so far." She asked him to help her change her position; he did so. "Yes, you shall hear it now. It is for your sake I kept it secret," her eyes filled--"my own"--again a gentle pressure of the hand and a smile. He dried her tears with his handkerchief, letting it slip in under his own spectacles as well. She lay gazing at him but did not speak; had she forgotten or had she changed her mind? He bent down over her:
"Well--?" he asked, "you will not tell me?"
"Oh, yes, the top paper in the drawer, in Karl's handwriting; you may read that at once. But not the others."
"Does Karl's letter contain it?"
She nodded slightly, it was barely visible; then she closed her eyes.
"The key?" he whispered.
"It is in the drawer," she answered, without opening her eyes and let his hand go.
He went down-stairs, opened the drawer, and took out the letter we know of, and sat down to read it properly.
His horror! And his indignation--and his helplessness! Why had he not known of this in time? He paced up and down the room, raging, he sat down again like one paralysed; he made plans and rejected them; he would have gone to every soul in the place and told them they lied. He would force his way into the meeting-house one fine day when it was crowded, climb to the pulpit and accuse them of the most cowardly, treacherous murder ... then he suddenly remembered that even if Ragni had been perfectly well, that would have been enough to kill her.