“No!” She knew it, of course, but she pretended surprise, a carefully suppressed alarm.
“I have what I am afraid is bad news, Olga. The letter was taken. I received only a sheet of blank paper.”
“Karl!” She leaped to her feet.
She was no mean actress. And behind it all was her real terror, greater, much greater, than he could know. Whatever design she had on Karl’s pity, she was only acting at the beginning. Deadly peril was clutching her, a double peril, of the body and of the soul.
“Taken! By whom?”
“By some one you know—young Larisch.”
“Larisch!” No acting there. In sheer amazement she dropped back from him, staring with wide eyes. Nikky Larisch! Then how had the Terrorists got it? Was all the world in their employ?
“But—it is impossible!”
“I’m sorry, Olga. But even then there is something to be explained. We imprisoned him—we got him in a trap, rather by accident. He maintained that he had not made away with the papers. A mystery, all of it. Only your man, Niburg, could explain, and he—”
“Yes?”