“The red ones, Fräulein,” he answered with suave insistence. “The red were for death, the white for life. And you chose to wear the red.”
The girl looked at him half in doubt, half in consternation.
“I know nothing of any white roses,” she replied steadily, although her heart began to be full of a sickening fear of treachery, “nor of any particular significance attached to my wearing red ones.”
The Count looked incredulous.
“Indeed! But Prince Roel is known to have sent roses of both kinds, with a note intimating the significance to turn of which colour you should choose to wear that night.”
She shook her head.
“I know nothing of this. All I received was a bunch of red roses.”
“And no note?”
“And no note. Perhaps, Count,” she went on, with a touch of scorn, “as you know so much more of the affair than I, you will tell me the words of the note.”
Zarka gave a slight bow of acceptance.