Von Stromberg bent his head and then got up and slowly paced the length of the room. When he returned there was another note in his voice. It was still quiet but the legato note had gone, and it was ice-cold.
“You do well to tell your story through the medium of sentiment which you well understand, rather than through the medium of logic, which you do not understand, which no woman understands.”
At his change of tone she glanced up. He was leering at her unpleasantly.
“I do not know what you mean,” she murmured.
“You are very clever, Fräulein, but your story has a great many holes in it—little holes which might grow into big ones, if one were disposed to enlarge them. There are several things which are not at all clear to me. Of course it must be as apparent to you as it is to me that if Herr Rizzio was an English agent, by remaining in England he had nothing to fear from you or anyone else. His object, too, in bringing you to Germany is clear. As you say, you knew too much, not about his connection with the English War Office, which, of course, would not matter in the least, but about Herr Rizzio’s connection with me, which would have mattered a great deal.”
He tapped his long forefinger upon his breast significantly and leaned forward ominously across the table. He dominated, hypnotized her. She closed her eyes, trembling violently.
“Do you mean that you do not believe? His letter, Excellenz—surely you believe that to be genuine?”
“Bait, Fräulein—that is all. Excellent bait. You swallowed it. Herr Hammersley very cleverly prepared himself against surprise. Only the fortunate accident of your losing yourself upon the moor saved Herr Rizzio from failure.”
“Oh, you are all wrong. You are willfully making me suffer. I have told the truth.”
Von Stromberg straightened and drew from his pocket a military telegraph form which he smoothed out gently with his long, bony fingers.