There was a momentary pause. De Chauxville and Etta exchanged a glance. Etta felt that she was lost. This Frenchman was not one to spare either man or woman from any motive of charity or chivalry.
“Even if that is so,” he said, “the princess is not relieved from the embarrassment of her situation.”
“No?”
“No, my astute friend. There is a little matter connected with Sydney Bamborough which has come to my knowledge.”
Etta moved, but she said nothing. The sound of her breathing was startlingly loud.
“Ah! Sydney Bamborough,” said Steinmetz slowly. “What about him?”
“He is not dead; that is all.”
Karl Steinmetz passed his broad hand down over his face, covering his mouth for a second.
“But he died. He was found on the steppe, and buried at Tver.”
“So the story runs,” said De Chauxville, with easy sarcasm. “But who found him on the steppe? Who buried him at Tver?”