"This is almost the end of your father's confession to me," Father Adrian continued. "At Cruta he sought the hospitality of the monastery, where he was taken ill. He wrote an urgent letter to you, and immediately he was able to walk he went up to the castle. I have already told you of the manner of return. Of that visit he told me scarcely anything, and he told me nothing at all concerning the wound which he received there. Only I gathered that he was more than ever anxious to see Count Hirsfeld. It was while waiting for your return that he made this confession to me. I have finished."
The white morning light was stealing into the room through the uncurtained windows. The fire had burnt out, and there was only a handful of ashes in the grate. Outside in the park a grey mist was hanging about in the hollows and over the tree-tops, and something of its damp chilliness seemed to have found its way into the apartment. Paul, who had been leaning heavily upon the mantelpiece, with his head buried in his hands, looked up and shivered. Then he glanced quickly across towards the opposite easy-chair. Father Adrian was still there, and at Paul's movement he rose to his feet.
"This has been a terrible night for you, I fear," he said quietly. "I am sorry to have given you so much pain. If I could I would have spared you."
"I thank you," Paul answered wearily. "It was right that I should know. Why did you not tell me at Cruta?"
"It seemed to me that your father's death was enough for you to bear! Perhaps I was wrong!"
Paul made no answer. His thoughts seemed suddenly to have travelled far away. Father Adrian watched his pale, stricken face with cold, pitiless eyes.
"You are weary," he said softly. "I shall leave you now, but I have something more to say to you on this matter. It is no part of your father's confession. It is from myself. Can I come to-morrow or the next day?"
"Come in a week," Paul answered. "I shall be able to talk calmly then about this."