"God's curse on you!" cried Rischenheim in a voice that choked
with passion.
"Eh? Oh, you can have no secrets from so good a friend as I am,
my lord. Be quick and open it."
The count began to open it.
"If you tear it up, or crumple it, I'll shoot you," said Sapt
quietly. "You know you can trust my word. Now read it."
"By God, I won't read it."
"Read it, I tell you, or say your prayers."
The muzzle was within a foot of his head. He unfolded the
telegram. Then he looked at Sapt. "Read," said the constable.
"I don't understand what it means," grumbled Rischenheim.
"Possibly I may be able to help you."
"It's nothing but--"
"Read, my lord, read!"
Then he read, and this was the telegram: "Holf, 19
Konigstrasse."
"A thousand thanks, my lord. And--the place it's despatched
from?"
"Strelsau."
"Just turn it so that I can see. Oh, I don't doubt you, but
seeing is believing. Ah, thanks. It's as you say. You're puzzled
what it means, Count?"
"I don't know at all what it means!"
"How strange! Because I can guess so well."
"You are very acute, sir."
"It seems to me a simple thing to guess, my lord."
"And pray," said Rischenheim, endeavoring to assume an easy and
sarcastic air, "what does your wisdom tell you that the message
means?"
"I think, my lord, that the message is an address.
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