The man sat up. In one hand he held a key and in the other a small file. “No, sir. Not quite so bad as that. I don’t suppose you will believe me, but I will tell you the truth. Before the young lady went away she gave me a letter and said if a certain young gentleman called for it, to give it to him. I have carried it in my pocket so long that it was becoming crumpled and soiled, and I thought I would put it in the safe. I had this key and it nearly fitted; that is why I was filing it.”
“I may believe it,” said the Count, “but I don’t think the judge will to-morrow. But where’s the letter? You may get up.”
Jacques passed the letter to the Count. The handwriting was Bertha’s and it was addressed to Mr. De Vinne.
“You may get up,” repeated the Count. “Give me that key. I will take charge of the letter and see that it is delivered when the young gentleman comes for it. I don’t believe a word you have told me except that you had the letter. Thieves always leave some loophole to crawl through.”
The man went out. The Count examined the safe to see that it was securely locked, and then went upstairs to his room.
“Mr. De Vinne! I suppose he is her English lover. But why should he come here? What a foolish question! Of course if he knew she was here he would come. I would go to the ends of the earth to see her if I knew where she had gone. Perhaps this letter will tell. Well, I have done worse things than open a letter addressed to another man.” As he spoke he broke the seal and read:
“My dear Mr. De Vinne:
“I am very sorry to hear of the sudden death of your brother, and you have my deepest sympathy in your affliction. I came here with Mrs. Glynne, the wife of Mr. Clarence Glynne, the son of my guardian. You have, no doubt, heard that our little craft was run down in the Channel by a large vessel. By God’s providence we escaped. The vessel was under orders to proceed at once to Marseilles, and we could not land until they reached there. We arrived safely in Paris and I have been the guest of Countess Mont d’Oro. She has invited me to go with her to her estate in Corsica and we shall leave to-morrow. She says that a letter addressed to Alfieri, near Ajaccio, Corsica, will not fail of delivery.
“Your friend,
“Bertha Renville.”
“Ha!” said the Count. “A very fortunate find. So they have gone to Corsica. Well, I have as much right to visit Corsica as they have and I think I will go. Vivienne says that she does not love me and that if I make love to anybody else our engagement is off; but I don’t believe it will turn out that way. Corsican women are all jealous. If she finds that I am flirting with some one else, she will probably begin to love me a little, and if I keep up the affair, in time she may become madly infatuated. By St. Christopher, what fun it will be, and how my honoured mother will enjoy it.”