“Now the strange desertion of Lieutenant von Bertheim and Captain von Ompertz may be accounted for.”
“Yes?” Her eyes were fixed on him as though to detect and shrivel up the coming falsehood. But Karl Irromar was no ordinary man, no ordinary wrong-doer, even, and the effect was otherwise.
“Captain Rollmar—have I the name aright?—Captain Rollmar has been here.”
At the name her face had brightened expectantly for an instant, then clouded again. She would give him no lead; he must tell his story without suggestion from her, and she could judge of its truth or falsehood.
“Indeed?” Only intense repression of her anxiety could have enabled her to pronounce the word so coldly.
“Yes. He came with no friendly intent, that was certain, and I judged it advisable to keep you under my protection and to refuse him entrance to my house.”
“The Lieutenant and Captain Ompertz?” She could not resist the question which forced itself to her lips.
“They had evidently fallen in with Captain Rollmar and his party,” he replied darkly. “The result of their meeting, you, gracious lady, may best imagine.”
In truth she did not know what to imagine, what to believe. A chill of despairing loneliness seemed to sweep over her soul. Only for a moment, and then she called up her courage again.
“I am thankful,” he said, insistently, “that I deemed it wise to keep you here under my protection.”