‘I understand,’ Greif said in a low voice.
Hilda looked away, and clasped her hands upon her knee, making an effort to tell her story connectedly. She knew that it would be far better that Greif should be prepared by the knowledge of the details which it would be hard to communicate to him afterwards.
‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘and the wretched servant took it to a Jew and sold it, and the Jew hid it—I suppose because he knew it was stolen—and long afterwards, only a very few days ago, he sold it to Wastei—and Wastei gave it to Berbel, and Berbel showed it to me.’
‘Is it safe?’ asked Greif, almost under his breath.
‘Yes—quite safe.’
‘Then I do not want to see it—’
‘I have not told you all, dear. There is more. If it had been only that—but there is something else. The coat was torn inside, above the pocket, so that something that had been meant for the pocket had slipped down inside. It was very strange!’
‘Something of his?’
‘Of his—for you. Oh, Greif—it is the letter you searched for so long and could never find!’
Greif’s face turned white and his voice was thick and indistinct.