Thereupon Greif went on his way down the broad corridor, leaving Hilda and Berbel to their own devices.
‘What is it?’ asked Hilda, who wanted to lose no time in rejoining her husband.
‘It is a very serious affair, and concerns the baron,’ answered Berbel. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you would come to my room.’
Hilda followed her, wondering what could have happened, and not without some presentiment of evil. When they had reached their destination Berbel carefully bolted the door and turned to her mistress. It was a small bright room, vaulted and whitewashed, simply but comfortably furnished. Hilda sat down and looked up at Berbel’s face, somewhat anxiously.
‘It is nothing bad,’ said Berbel. ‘But it will give pain to the baron, and so I consulted you. I have found a letter written to him by Herr von Greifenstein on the night he died. No one but you can give it to him.’
Hilda started slightly. Anything which recalled the fearful tragedy was necessarily painful and disturbing to the peace of her unclouded happiness.
‘A letter?’ she repeated in a low voice. ‘Where did you find it? They searched everywhere for months. Are you quite sure?’
‘They might have searched for ever, but for the merest accident,’ answered Berbel, beginning to undo her bundle. ‘This,’ she added, unfolding the velvet garment—‘this is the coat Herr von Greifenstein wore when he shot himself.’
Hilda gazed silently at the thing during several seconds, and shuddered at the thoughts it recalled, though she was by no means persuaded that Berbel was not mistaken.
‘How do you know it is?’ she asked at last.