“You are Fräulein Harlberg, living at the old farm in the valley?”
“Yes,” she answered, with a touch of surprise.
“Your father, Herr Harlberg, comes here for sport, does he not?” She nodded an affirmative. “Has he shot much?”
“Not much,” she answered, in rising wonder. “My father’s health has not been very good.”
D’Alquen smiled, and the incredulity in his smile left, on the score of politeness, something to be desired.
“You are great friends of Count Zarka of Rozsnyo?”
A strange, not yet accountable apprehension was beginning to steal over her. But she answered the man’s catechism unfalteringly, feeling that he had perhaps a right, since she owed him her life, to put questions which nothing but his manner suggested were prompted by more than simple, if insistent, curiosity.
“We know Count Zarka.”
“Yes.” His tone indicated that he was sure of it. “You know Count Zarka,” he repeated. Then his manner changed abruptly, and for the better. With an apologetic smile he said, “I ought to ask pardon for all these rude questions. I have only one more, mein Fräulein.”
She glanced at him as he stood before her, almost with a suggestion of barring her way. The smile was still on his lips, but the reassurance caused by his last speech died away as she noticed that his eyes were not in accord with it. Their expression was stern and malignant.