“No, thank you. I would, but am riding back to Schönval to-night.”
He looked surprised. “A long ride.”
“And a lovely night. I shall enjoy it. By the way, Turnour, do you know anything of Count Furello?”
He looked curiously at me and laughed gently. “You are not riding with him?”
“Oh, no. Why?”
“Nothing. He is a naturalized German. His father was an impecunious Italian Count, who came to these parts fortune hunting, and married a native heiress; at least, so we’ve heard. He has an estate in the Geierthal.”
“Yes, I know. Anything more?”
“Nothing, except that he is a great friend, some say”—he lowered his voice—“some say a creature, an âme damnée of Rallenstein’s.”
“Ah! that’s everything. I guessed as much. He is rather a character,” I said guardedly.
“H’m! Yes. I don’t presume to offer you advice, but were I in your place, I should not get too thick with il Conte.”