“When he addressed you as the Count Caffarelli, you might have had such a doubt,” said Maitland, sneeringly.
“He called me simply Count,” was the reply.
“Well; so far well: there was no assumption of a name, at least.”
“None whatever; and if there had been, would the offence have seemed to you so very—very unpardonable?” It is not easy to convey the intense impertinence given to the delivery of this speech by the graduated slowness of every word, and the insolent composure with which it was spoken.
“What do you mean, sir, by this—this insinuation?” cried Maitland.
“Insinuation!—it's none. It is a mere question as to a matter of good taste or good morals.”
“I have no time for such discussions, sir,” said Maitland, hotly. “I am glad to find that the blunder by which you came here was not of your own provoking, though I cannot see how it makes the explanation less difficult to myself.”
“What is your difficulty, may I ask?” cried M'Caskey, coolly.
“Is it no difficulty that I must explain how I know—” and he stopped suddenly, just as a man might stop on the verge of a precipice, and look horror-struck down into the depth below him. “I mean,” said he, recovering himself, “that to enter upon the question of our relations to each other would open the discussion of matters essentially secret. When I have said I know you, the next question will be, 'Who is he?'”
“Well, what is the difficulty there? I am Graf M'Caskey, in Bavaria; Count of Serra-major, in Sicily; Commander of the Order of St. Peter and St. Paul, and a Knight of Malta. I mention these, for I have the 'brevets' with me.”