“But you never told me—Sid!”
“No,” he replied simply: “there was nothing to be gained by it!”
This was lamentably true, and Hilda felt that it was so, although her brother had no thought of posing as a martyr.
“Christian,” she continued softly, “distrusted him for some reason. He knows something of his former life, and told me a short time ago that Bruno was not his name at all. This morning Christian received a letter from Carl Trevetz, whom we knew in Paris, you will remember, saying that Signor Bruno's real name was Max Talma, also warning Christian to avoid him.”
“Is this all you know?” asked Sidney, in a peculiarly quiet tone.
“That is all I know,” she replied. “But it has struck me that—that this may have something to do with Signor Bruno. I mean—is it not probable that Christian may have discovered something which caused him to go away suddenly without letting Bruno know of his departure?”
Sidney thought of the water at the edge of the moat. The incident might prove easy enough of explanation, but at the moment it was singularly unreconcilable with Hilda's comforting explanation. And again, the recollection of the signal-whistle heard by Molly was unwelcome.
“Yes,” he replied vaguely. “Yes, it may.”
He was, by nature and habit, a slow thinker, and Hilda was running away from him a little; but he was, perhaps, surer than she.
“I am convinced, Sidney,” she continued, “that Christian connects Signor Bruno in some manner with the disturbances in France. It seems very strange that an old man buried alive in a small village should have it in his power to do so much harm.”