‘A live son is better than a dead father. A message from the dead wolf would not make the christening of his grandson any merrier, would it, Frau Berbel?’
‘Better leave dead people alone,’ she answered, thoughtfully rubbing the mole on her chin.
‘In God’s peace,’ said Wastei, lifting his small hat from his head. ‘Or wherever else they may be,’ he added, putting it on again.
There was a pause, during which Berbel reflected upon the situation, and Wastei leaned back against the grey wall, watching a hawk that was circling above the distant crags.
‘What will you do with it?’ asked Berbel, at last.
‘Burn it, or give it to you—whichever you like.’
‘You have not read it?’
‘It is not the sign-board of an inn—if it were, I could. Besides, it is sealed. There is writing on the back, and I think there is a capital G among the letters. You see there was more than the spot on the collar to tell me whose the coat was.’
‘It is true that the baron always expected to find a letter from his father,’ said Berbel. ‘It looks probable, this story of yours.’
‘Do you want the paper?’ ‘Yes. I will keep it in a safe place. In ten years, when there is no more sorrow about the old people, the baron may like to know that his father thought of him.’