‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that there was one very simple remedy for you.’
‘A little lead in the right place. I know. And yet I lived, and I live still. Why? I do not know. I believed in the revolution, though she had forced the belief upon me, and I continued to believe in it until long after I went to South America. And when I had ceased to believe in it, no one cared whether I lived or died. Then came this hope, and this blow. I could almost do it now.’
Greifenstein looked at him curiously for a moment, and then rose from his place and went deliberately to a huge, dark piece of furniture that stood between the windows. He brought back a polished mahogany case, unlocked it and set it beside his brother upon the table, under the light of the lamp.
Rieseneck knew what he meant well enough, but he did not wince. On the contrary he opened the case and looked at the beautiful weapon, as it lay all loaded and ready for use in its bed of green baize cloth. Then he laid it on the table again, and pushed it a little away from him.
‘Not now,’ he said quietly. ‘I am in your house. You would have to declare my identity. It would make a scandal. I will not do it.’
‘You had better put it into your pocket,’ answered Greifenstein grimly, but without a trace of unkindness in his voice. ‘You may like to have it about you, you know.’
Rieseneck looked at his brother in silence for a few seconds, and then took the thing once more in his hands.
‘Do you mean it as a gift?’ he asked. ‘You might not care to claim it afterwards.’
‘Yes.’
‘I thank you.’ He took the revolver from the case, examined it attentively and then slipped it into his breast-pocket. ‘I thank you,’ he repeated. ‘I do not possess one.’