‘I did not know,’ she replied, in some perturbation.
‘I did, but as no one asked me for the letter, I did not offer it. I cannot tell you all it contained, nor shall I tell Greif. But this I will tell you. My father arrived here last night, and almost immediately afterwards he and Herr von Greifenstein, jointly, killed Frau von Greifenstein, and then committed suicide.’
‘Is there no doubt!’ asked the baroness nervously. She turned white at the thought of the scene his words recalled.
‘The last confessions of men about to die are generally trustworthy,’ remarked Rex rather drily.
‘Of course—of course.’ She wondered what other communication the letter had contained. ‘Exactly, and you may rely upon the exactness of what I tell you. My poor father had no reason for deceiving me, nor was he a man to deceive any one. He had been a fanatic and an enthusiast in his youth, and if his fanaticism led him too far, he paid the penalty in forty years of exile.’
‘But what could have induced him—or Greifenstein—’
‘Madam,’ said Rex courteously, but firmly, ‘I regret my inability to answer your question. It must be supposed that two such men had some cause for acting as they did, which seemed to them sufficient.’
‘Forgive me!’ exclaimed the baroness. ‘I did not mean to ask you. I thank you for having told me what you have. Am I to tell Greif? I think—indeed I know that what he believes coincides with your account.’
‘Then you had better say nothing. I could not show him the letter, and if he knew that there was one, he might naturally enough reproach me with a want of confidence in him. I should be sorry to be placed in such a position, at such a time.’
For a few moments neither spoke. The baroness was formulating another question, which must be put to her companion.