“Harlberg? So! Harlberg. Herr and Fräulein Harlberg? The lady is his daughter?”
“Yes.” D’Alquen had repeated the name curiously. There was hardly offence in his intonation, but it brought a frown to Von Tressen’s face.
“They live here? No?”
“Herr Harlberg stays in the forest for sport.”
“For sport? Indeed?” The exclamation was almost offensive in its suggested incredulity. “He is a great friend of the Count Zarka—or the lady is, eh?”
“I really cannot tell you, mein Herr,” Von Tressen answered sharply, with rising irritation as the other’s inquisitiveness now touched him more nearly. “I made the acquaintance of Herr Harlberg and his daughter only a few days ago, and my curiosity is hardly as keen as yours.”
For an instant D’Alquen seemed as though he would be provoked to a hot retort; his eyes had an angry gleam, but he checked the impulse, and his expression changed to a smile as he made a deprecating wave of his hand.
“Pardon, Lieutenant. I did not intend that my curiosity should exceed the bounds of good taste. I cannot afford”—he gave a laugh—“to risk giving you offence. Only here in this wild part everything seems so strange that one feels bound to ask questions of the rare human beings one meets. Let me not abuse your hospitality by asking another.”
Von Tressen could but make a good-humoured reply, even though he felt the guest’s explanation was hardly convincing, and after a little desultory chat D’Alquen rose and took his leave, saying he had a long walk to his inn, but would hope to meet and shoot with them on the morrow or the day after.
“I cannot make him out,” Galabin said when they were alone, in answer to Von Tressen’s question. “He is another enigma added to our stock awaiting solution. But of one thing I am quite certain.”