“You know him, then?” Galabin asked, still more mystified.
D’Alquen threw out his arms with a gesture of protest. “Not I. Only by sight, that is, unless I have set down the wrong man for the Count. A dark man, handsome, yes, if it were not for a sinister expression and the grin of a wolf. He rides a roan horse often in the forest.”
“That is the Count,” Von Tressen assented.
“I saw him,” the other continued, “this morning, shortly before I had the pleasure of meeting you gentlemen. He rode over to that old house in the valley.”
“Yes; we saw him there.”
“Ah!” The intense, fierce curiosity seemed to surge back into their guest’s face. “You were there, at that curious house? You have friends there?”
Galabin hesitated a moment, then, judging it safest to be straight-forward, he answered: “We happen to know the people who are staying there.”
“Ah, yes?” The man’s curiosity was insatiable; it seemed to increase with every fresh point it seized upon. “An old gentleman and a young lady. May one without offence ask who they are?”
He had suddenly checked the vehemence of his manner, and the last question was put almost carelessly.
“I do not suppose there is any harm in my mentioning their name,” Galabin replied. “It is Harlberg.”