“Really, Herr Tyrrell, I have always given an Englishman credit for being the incarnation of common sense.”
“I hope I am not less sensible than the average of my countrymen. And that quality would certainly lead me to the conclusion that foul play is at work.”
He bowed, still sneeringly indulgent. “Perhaps you can suggest a motive.”
“Simply that these unfortunate men are supposed to have knowledge of a dangerous secret.”
He raised his eyebrows in contemptuous surprise.
“Mr. Tyrrell, this is too absurd! You can hardly suggest or expect me to entertain such an inference seriously.”
“It is a strange coincidence.”
“If you had studied our German philosophers you would have ceased to find anything strange in mere coincidence.”
“Perhaps so. It would need, however, a great deal of philosophy to refute my theory of foul play.”
I began to understand the rampart of polite incredulity behind which Rallenstein had entrenched himself, and how hopeless it was for me either to break through or entice him from it. Nevertheless, I continued: