She knew that she could count upon him, for since the birth of the little Benedict and the death of John, Ferdinand had stormed with threats of vengeance, while knowing his impotency.
His life with Harietta had grown a torment and a hell—but with every fresh unkindness and pang of jealousy she caused him, his low passion for her increased. He knew that she loved Verisschenzko, whom he hated with all his might—and if she now proposed to hurt both his enemies, he would assist her joyfully.
"Tell it me," he begged.
So she drew him to the sofa and picked up a block and pencil.
"Do you possess any of the writing of your dead brother, John, or if you don't, can you get some from anywhere?"
Ferdinand's face blazed with excitement. What was she going to suggest?
"I always keep one letter—in which he ordered me never to address him and told me I was not of his blood but was a mongrel Turk."
"That is splendid—where is it? Have you got it here?"
"Yes, in my despatch box. I'll go and fetch it now."
"Very well. I will get rid of Stanislass for the evening and we can have some hours alone—and you will see if I don't help you to worry them hideously, Ferdie, even if that is all we can do!"