“The evidence,” he answered quietly and unhesitatingly, “of the roses.”
She was at a loss, that was plain. And the idea of a false underhand accusation struck more fear to her than the certainty of her visitor’s determined persecution.
“The roses?” she repeated.
“The red and the white,” he answered, with an almost mocking seriousness. “The white signifying life, and the red, death. It was perhaps a cruel choice to force upon you.”
“Choice?” she exclaimed in blank amazement. “I know of no choice.”
“Surely!” he insisted blandly. “And you wore the red roses at the Margravine von Reuspach’s ball.”
“I wore——” she replied. “Yes, I remember wearing red roses which Prince Roel sent me. I hesitated whether I should put them in my dress, and only did so because I thought it would be ungracious to refuse.”
Zarka raised his eyebrows in affected astonishment.
“Ungracious, Fräulein? To refuse to send your lover to his death?”
“Prince Roel was not my lover,” she retorted indignantly. “And how could wearing his roses send him to his death?”