Again there was no answer.
"Tell what you know," said Hans to the Gipsy. "Highness, he alone knows
the man who brought about all this."
"The archplotter of this damnable conspiracy?" The duke's eyes became
alive, his face, his whole body. Every beat of his heart cried out for
vengeance. "Who is he? Tell me! Give him to me, man, and all of you
shall go free. Give him into these hands. His name!" The duke's hands
worked convulsively as if they were already round the throat of this
unseen, implacable enemy. He was terrible in this moment.
The Gipsy produced a letter. It had to be held carefully, as it was old
and tattered. The duke read it. Beyond that it made the original offer
it was worthless. The handwriting was palpably disguised. The duke flung
the missive to the floor.
"Fool! Is that all you have? Tell me what you know, man, or I shall have
you shot in the morning, immunity or no immunity! Quick!"
"Highness," said the Gipsy, thoroughly alarmed, "this is how it
happened. My band was staying at the time in Dreiberg. We told fortunes
and exhibited an Italian puppet-show. The letter came first. I was poor
and sometimes desperate. I was to take her away and leave her with
strange people."
"Ah!" interrupted the duke, with despairing gesture toward Grumbach,
"why did you not leave us all in peace?"
"Highness, a great wrong has been done, and God brought me here to right
it.
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