She looked swiftly, almost fearfully, round the room. She was holding the little black fan—I see her now—tightly in her clenched hands. She threw it down, and clasped her hands over her knees, leaning forward and speaking in her usual tone, but as low as a whisper.
“My advice to you, Herr Tyrrell, is to leave this country. You may be safe as yet. But you have been ill-advised in interesting yourself in other men’s affairs. We are under an iron will here, and it makes sure.”
“You brought me here to tell me that?”
To my intense surprise her eyes filled with tears. She looked away.
“Don’t ask me that, don’t ask me that,” she returned passionately, but always in a low voice. “Be thankful that you are free to go, and pity us who are not.”
She put her handkerchief to her eyes. I rose, and stood leaning my elbow on the mantelpiece. There was silence; a little clock by me chimed six. Then I said:
“I am sorry to have asked you a distressing question. The more that it was perhaps unnecessary. For I know——”
She rose quickly, stopping me by a gesture of her outstretched hand.
“Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me!” she cried under her breath. “Say you know nothing. Your life may depend upon it.”
“Baroness!” I cried, almost appalled as I realized the truth of her position.