And yet the creature had a strange air of the commonplace, as he stood looking on Markheim with a smile; and when he added: “You are looking for the money, I believe?” it was in the tones of everyday politeness.
Markheim made no answer.
“I should warn you,” resumed the other, “that the maid has left her sweetheart earlier than usual and will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be found in this house, I need not describe to him the consequences.”
“You know me?” cried the murderer.
The visitor smiled. “You have long been a favourite of mine,” he said; “and I have long observed and often sought to help you.”
“What are you?” cried Markheim, “the devil?”
“What I may be,” returned the other, “cannot affect the service I propose to render you.”
“It can,” cried Markheim; “it does! Be helped by you? No, never; not by you! You do not know me yet; thank God, you do not know me!”
“I know you,” replied the visitant, with a sort of kind severity, or rather firmness. “I know you to the soul.”
“Know me!” cried Markheim. “Who can do so? My life is but a travesty and slander on myself. I have lived to belie my nature. All men do; all men are better than this disguise, that grows about and stifles them. You see each dragged away by life, like one whom bravos have seized and muffled in a cloak. If they had their own control—if you could see their faces, they would be altogether different, they would shine out for heroes and saints! I am worse than most; myself is more overlaid; my excuse is known to me and God. But, had I the time, I could disclose myself.”