Oberzohn nodded.
“She would do anythings what I tell her.” In his agitation his English was getting a little ragged. “A girl may not like a mans, but she might hate somethings worse—you understand? A woman says death is not’ing, but a woman is afeard of death, isn’t it?”
“You’re crazy,” said Monty scornfully.
“I am crazy, am I? And a damned old fool also—yes? Yet I shall marry her.”
There was a dead silence, and then Oberzohn continued the conversation, but on a much calmer note.
“Perhaps I am what you call me, but it is not a thing worthy for two friends to quarrel. To-morrow you shall come here, and we will discuss this matter like a business proposition, hein?”
Monty examined him as though he were a strange insect that had wandered into his ken.
“You’re not a Swede, you’re German,” he said. “That baron stuff gave you away.”
“I am from the Baltic, but I have lived many years in Sweden,” said Oberzohn shortly. “I am not German: I do not like them.”
More than this he would not say. Possibly he shared Gurther’s repugnance towards his sometime neighbours.