"Certainly," said John, stepping with his back towards the bell. Beecher Monmouth eased his collar, which had been disturbed. He put his hand to his thin, neatly-ordered hair. He was breathing heavily.
"You'll drive me mad. Have you come here to rob me, or——"
Then his mood suddenly changed. The one passion of his life welled to the surface. If John was there intending to rob him he cared little. There was one thing only that could really strike at him deeply, and that was his wife's love and fidelity.
"Look here," he said, suddenly pulling himself together, "tell me that it is not an assignation; that you are not waiting for my wife."
John looked at him and was silent for a surprised moment; then he said, quietly and solemnly:
"I swear I am not waiting for your wife. I am here on far more serious business, and, as for your wife, I neither care, nor have I ever cared, anything about her."
Beecher Monmouth's eyes took on a visible expression of relief; his gaze travelled away from John and looked about the room. Once again his glance fell upon the disorder of letters upon the bed. He made a step forward and, before John could stop him, picked up one. John saw his head jerk curiously as the first words smote his eyes. "Liebste Alice." His gaze went to the date of the letter. It was scarcely a fortnight old! He read a few lines of the German missive, which he understood, then he lifted his eyes to John.
Never in his life had John seen a man alter so in a moment as Beecher Monmouth altered in that moment.
"Do you know what these letters are?" he asked in a jerking voice. "Do you understand German?"
John nodded.