‘Better burn it,’ suggested Wastei, pulling out a match-box, and fumbling in his unfamiliar pockets for the letter.
‘I am not sure of that,’ said Berbel, who knew that if she insisted, he would destroy it in spite of her. ‘After all, Wastei, it is neither yours nor mine.’
‘I bought it with the coat. I can burn it if I like,’ said Wastei, striking a match and watching the white flame in the sunshine.
‘Of course you can, if you like,’ replied Berbel unmoved.
‘Well, if you want it, there it is,’ he said, throwing away the match and handing her the letter. ‘Do not spoil the christening with it, Frau Berbel.’
She took the envelope with a great show of indifference and looked attentively at the superscription.
‘Is it what I thought?’ inquired Wastei.
‘To my son Greif. That is what is written on it.’
‘It is like the old wolf’s manner,’ said the other. ‘He might have said Greifenstein at least. But I suppose the devil was in a hurry and could not wait for him to write it out. I am sure I would not have waited so long. God greet you, Frau Berbel.’
Wastei nodded and strode across the sunny court, well satisfied with himself. He had planned the whole meeting, with the useless craftiness of a born woodman. Several days had elapsed since he had bought the coat and found the letter in the lining. In spite of his pretended ignorance he could read well enough to make out the address, and he had come to the conclusion that Berbel was the person to be trusted. He would not for the world have destroyed the precious missive, but he was equally determined neither to keep it himself nor to mar the joy of the Sigmundskrons’ festivities by putting it into Greif’s own hands. He had known Berbel for many years and he was sure of her discretion. She would keep it until the proper moment was come, and would give it to the right person in the end. But he had not been able to resist the temptation of making a profound mystery of the matter and he prided himself upon the effective way in which he had executed his scheme. Three words would have sufficed, but he had passed more than half an hour very agreeably in Berbel’s company. And Berbel, little guessing the tremendous import of what she held in her hand, had been interested by the long story. It did not enter her mind that the letter could be anything but a word of affectionate farewell, at the time Wastei gave it into her keeping. Intelligent and keen as she was, for a woman of her class, it nevertheless did not occur to her that she was putting into her pocket the key to the mystery of eighteen months ago. The baroness had never spoken to her familiarly about the tragedy, and she took it for granted that the catastrophe was fully understood by the survivors, though they chose to keep its cause a secret among themselves. Hilda had indeed told her that poor Greif had received no message from his father, but as the baroness had never mentioned the letter to Rex, she supposed that both were in the same position.