“You came to me at Cape Town,” he muttered; “you had all Von Ragastein's letters, you knew his history, you had the Imperial mandate.”
“Von Ragastein and I exchanged the most intimate confidences in his camp,” Dominey said, “as Doctor Schmidt there knows. I told him my history, and he told me his. The letters and papers I took from him.”
Schmidt had covered his face with his hands for a moment. His shoulders were heaving.
“My beloved chief!” he sobbed. “My dear devoted master! Killed by that drunken Englishman!”
“Not so drunk as you fancied him,” Dominey said coolly, “not so far gone in his course of dissipation but that he was able to pull himself up when the great incentive came.”
The Princess looked from one to the other of the two men. Seaman had still the appearance of a man struggling to extricate himself from some sort of nightmare.
“My first and only suspicion,” he faltered, “was that night when Wolff disappeared!”
“Wolff's coming was rather a tragedy,” Dominey admitted. “Fortunately, I had a secret service man in the house who was able to dispose of him.”
“It was you who planned his disappearance?” Seaman gasped.
“Naturally,” Dominey replied. “He knew the truth and was trying all the time to communicate with you.”