"I must say something that will offend you, I'm afraid. For some time I have found myself unable to believe the—story of your life you were once good enough to give me."
"Ah, well," said Nicolovius, engrossed in his book, "it is not required of you to believe it. We need have no quarrel about that."
Suddenly Queed found that he hated to give the stab, but he did not falter.
"I must be frank with you, professor. I saw whom that envelope was addressed to just now."
"Nor need we quarrel about that."
But Queed's steady gaze upon him presently grew unbearable, and at last the old man raised his head.
"Well? Whom was it addressed to?"
Queed felt disturbingly sorry for him, and, in the same thought, admired his iron control. The old professor's face was gray; his very lips were colorless; but his eyes were steady, and his voice was the voice of every day.
"I think," said Queed, quietly, "that it is addressed to you."
There was a lengthening silence while the two men, motionless, looked into each other's eyes. The level gaze of each held just the same look of faint horror, horror subdued and controlled, but still there. Their stare became fascinated; it ran on as though nothing could ever happen to break it off. To Queed it seemed as if everything in the world had dropped away but those brilliant eyes, frightened yet unafraid, boring into his.