It was morning, and she went to his study at once, taking the papers with her, and she told him how Schmidt had stolen the letters and kept them some time, and how she had caught him just when he was bringing them back. It had never occurred to her that he had copied them, still less that he had photographed them. She begged her husband to let her send the money at once and end the matter.
He had listened with a look of increasing annoyance, and she laid the sheets on the table before him when she had finished; but he pushed them back to her without glancing at them, for if he had done so he could hardly have helped reading some words of Castiglione’s letter.
‘It is very well done,’ he said. ‘Schmidt is a clever fellow. But if you had told me at once, he would have been in prison by this time. He disappeared on the third day after you found him in the chapel. You must not send the money on any account.’
Maria saw that he was more displeased than alarmed at a possible danger which looked very serious to her.
‘I am very sorry,’ she said penitently. ‘What is to be done?’
‘I cannot tell. It is a matter, too, on which I cannot ask advice. There are things of which one does not wish to speak, even to a lawyer.’
He was evidently very much annoyed; but she saw that she had done right in coming to him, though it was perhaps too late.
‘But something must be done!’ she protested.
‘Of course we must do something,’ he answered, with manifest impatience. ‘But it is worse than useless to act hastily. Give me time! I shall find a way.’
The words were not unkind, but his manner was petulant, like that of a nervous man who is interrupted when very busy, and is made to take a great deal of trouble against his inclination. Montalto had always been inclined to procrastinate, though he could show a good deal of energy when forced to act.