He bowed in the affirmative in silence. Then, after a few moments, he remarked, in a strange, meaning tone, his black, penetrating eyes fixed upon her: “I know the secret of your nationality, and your friendship with Count Schreyer—and you know mine. So, my dear Elena, we have nothing to fear from each other. Do you understand?”
“I don’t understand. You surely are not hinting that I should betray my husband’s secrets—the naval secrets of Italy?”
The dark, smooth-tongued man from Rome smiled quietly, as he answered:
“That, my dear Elena, is exactly the message I bear to you from Schreyer. It is known that your husband tells you a good deal. You have whispered secrets to your friends, the Comtesse Landrini, and also the Renata Pozzi. If to them, then why not to me—eh?”
“Never!” she cried. “I have married an Italian, and I am now Italian.”
“But the money. It will be useful. Levitski must be paid in full in eight weeks’ time. Seventy-two thousand lire. That is the sum, I think? If you fail him this time, he will take his revenge and tell the truth.”
“He does not know.”
“But Schreyer will tell him.”
“What?” she gasped, starting from her chair. “Has the Count told you that?”
“Well, he has not exactly said so in words,” was her visitor’s reply.