‘Do not blaspheme,’ said the Countess quietly, and she let the latch spring softly back into its place. ‘If you had not something about you which you have stolen, you would not be so frightened at the idea of being searched.’
‘It is the disgrace before the servants——’
‘That is absurd. If nothing is found on you, the blame will fall on me. You must make up your mind instantly whether you will throw yourself on my mercy and show me what you have taken, or whether the men shall search you.’
Her hand moved to the lock again, and Schmidt read in her face that her patience was exhausted. A southern Italian would have become dramatic at this point, and would probably have fallen on his knees, tearing his hair and shedding real tears. But Schmidt was from the north, and practically an Austrian. He was a thief, he saw that he was caught, and he made the best of the situation at once.
‘Then I appeal to your Excellency’s generosity,’ he said quietly. ‘I have not touched the relic, and what I took some time ago I had come to restore when you found me here.’
He produced from his pocket a square package, done up in a clean sheet of white paper, without string. He handed it to her.
‘You will find here seven letters from the Conte del Castiglione,’ he said, ‘and one from his Excellency. I took them from your writing-case three weeks ago, and I was going to put them back this evening while you were at dinner. I heard you coming and I could not go out by the ante-chamber without being seen. So I cut the wire of the light and hid myself.’
Maria’s hand had closed upon the precious packet while he spoke.
‘You?’ she cried at last. She was almost speechless with amazement. ‘You took them?’