"I will get it," answered Claudius, "for I will come back as soon as I have obtained the necessary proofs of my identity from Heidelberg."
"I never heard of anything so ridiculous," said Margaret hotly. "To go all that distance for a few papers. As if we did not all know you! If you are not Dr. Claudius, who are you? Why, Mr. Barker went to Heidelberg on purpose to find you."
"Nevertheless, Messrs. Screw and Scratch doubt me. Here is their letter—the last one. Will you look at it?" and Claudius took an envelope from his pocket-book. He was glad to have come over to the argumentative tack, for his heart was very sore, and he knew what the end must be.
"No." The Countess turned to him for the first time, with an indescribable look in her face, between anger and pain. "No, I will not read it."
"I wish you would," said Claudius, "you would understand better." Something in his voice touched a sympathetic chord.
"I think I understand," said the Countess, looking back at the sea, which was growing dim and indistinct before her. "I think you ought to go."
The indistinctness of her vision was not due to any defect in her sight. The wet fog was rising like a shapeless evil genius out of the sluggish sea, rolling heavily across the little bay to the lovers' beach, with its swollen arms full of blight and mildew. Margaret shivered at the sight of it, and drew the lace thing she wore closer to her throat. But she did not rise, or make any sign that she would go.
"What is the other reason for your going?" she asked at length.
"What other reason?"
"You said your inheritance, or the evidence you require in order to obtain it, was one of the principal reasons for your going. I suppose there is another?"