"You do not care to return to Germany?"
"Nor to France, M. Ferraud."
"There's a wide world outside. You will find room enough," diffidently.
"An outlaw?"
"Of a kind."
"Be easy. I haven't even the wish to be buried there. There is more to the story, more than you know. My name is Herman Stüler . . . if I live. There is not a drop of French blood in my veins. Breitmann died on the field in the Soudan, and I took his papers." His eyes burned into Ferraud's.
"Perhaps that would be the best way," replied M. Ferraud pensively.
"What shall I do with the money? It is under the bed."
"Keep it. No one will contest your right to it, Herman Stüler; and besides, your French, fluent as it is, still possesses the Teutonic burr. Yes, Herman Stüler; very good, indeed."
Hildegarde eyed them in wonder. Were they both mad?