"Nothing--nothing at all," was the stubborn reply.
"I really do not understand you. If the matter stands as you have put it, you have no reason whatever to wish to spare the Governor."
"I do not wish to spare him," said Brunnow, sternly. "But I will not turn informer against the man I once named friend. If I had desired to use those weapons against him, I could have done so long ago. My shafts would strike more surely, and with deadlier aim, than any in a Winterfeld's quiver, for mine are steeped in poison--the very reason which would prevent my using them."
"These are noble sentiments, very noble sentiments, no doubt, but I think----"
"Pray do not let us pursue the subject further!" the Doctor interrupted. "Why drag these long-forgotten matters before the light of day? Let the buried past rest in its grave."
This sudden diversion was, certainly, not to the Superintendent's taste. He would willingly have continued the conversation, but he saw that he should get nothing more out of the prisoner. After all, his main object was achieved. He knew now what he had wished to know: he therefore brought himself, without too violent an effort, to speak of other things, and after chatting a while on general topics, took his leave. Brunnow looked after him uneasily, as he went.
"Did he come here merely to induce me to send in a petition, or was I being cross-questioned on Raven's account? I almost fear so. That police-fellow's eager attention and desire to hear more looked suspicious. I wish I had not let myself be led away to speak so openly before him."
CHAPTER XVIII.
It was evening, but, in spite of the lateness of the hour and the chilly inclement autumn weather, the streets of the capital were yet alive with all the busy restless movement which characterises a great city. Carriages rolled hither and thither in every direction, pedestrians hustled each other on the pavement and before the brightly-lighted shops, and it was only in the more aristocratic quarter, which lay a little aside from the main streets and chief arteries of traffic, that a certain stately peace and quiet reigned supreme.
In the room which she was at present occupying in the Selteneck mansion, Gabrielle Harder sat alone, buried in one of those deep troubled reveries which so often came upon her now, and which threatened to transform the bright vivacious girl into a dreamy, pensive heroine. She was in full dress, for she was going with her party to the opera that evening; but as she lay back in her arm-chair, heedlessly crushing the dainty laces on her dress, her thoughts were evidently far from the amusements of the hour.