In silence, then, for a spell, the German mercenary pondered her with those slowly kindling eyes, that slowly spreading, indefinite smile. Then he stirred, and to his secretary he muttered shortly:
“The woman lies. In private I may snare the truth from her.”
He rose—a tall, massively imposing figure in a low-girdled tunic of deep purple velvet, open at the breast, and gold-laced across a white silken undervest.
“There is some evidence,” he informed her gruffly. “Come with me, and you shall see it for yourself.”
He led the way from that cheerless hall by a dark corridor to a small snug room, richly hung and carpeted, where a servant waited. He dismissed the fellow, and in the same breath bade her enter, watching her the while from under lowered brows. One of her women had followed; but admittance was denied her. Danvelt's wife must enter his room alone.
Whilst she waited there, with scared eyes and fluttering bosom, he went to take from an oaken coffer the letter signed “Philip Danvelt.” He folded the sheet so that the name only was to be read, and came to thrust it under her eyes.
“What name is that?” he asked her gruffly.
Her answer was very prompt.
“It is my husband's, but not the writing—it is another hand; some other Philip Danvelt; there will be others in Zeeland.”
He laughed softly, looking at her ever with that odd intentness, and under his gaze she shrank and cowered in terror; it spoke to her of some nameless evil; the tepid air of the luxurious room was stifling her.