"No; I did not. I came because I wanted to discuss——"
"A young man called Richard Faversham. Very well, let's discuss him," and the Count took a fresh cigar and lit it.
"I've been thinking a good deal since I saw you last," said Mr. Brown—"thinking pretty deeply."
The Count for reply looked at Mr. Brown steadily, but spoke no word.
"I have been wondering at your interest in him," said Mr. Brown. "He's not your sort."
"Perhaps that's a reason," he suggested.
"Still I do not understand you."
"But I understand you. I know you through and through. You, although you are a member of the best London clubs, although you pass as a Britisher of Britishers, and although you bear a good old commonplace English name, hate Britain, and especially do you hate England. Shall I tell you why?"
"Not aloud, my friend—not aloud; there may be servants outside—people listening," and Mr. Brown spoke in a whisper.
"I shall speak aloud," replied the Count, "and there is no one listening. I feel in a communicative, garrulous mood to-night, and it's no use mincing words. You hate England, because you are German at heart, and a German by birth, although no one knows it—but me. I also hate England."