The duke flung the hand aside. As he did so something snapped in
Herbeck's brain, though at that instant he was not conscious of it.
"It was you, you! It was your hand that wrecked my life, yours! Ah, is
there such villainy? Are such men born and do they live? My wife dead,
my own heart broken, Arnsberg ruined and disgraced! And these two
children: which is mine?"
To the king of Jugendheit the ceiling reeled and the floor revolved
under his feet.
"Villain, what have you to say? What was your purpose?"
How many years, thought Herbeck, had he been preparing for this moment?
How long had he been steeling his heart against this very scene? Futile
dream! He drew himself together with a supreme effort. He would face
this hour as he had always planned to face it. Found out! He looked at
his finger, touched it with an impersonal curiosity. He had forgotten
all about such a possibility. Where had he read that there is no crime
but leaves some evidence, infinitesimally small though it be, which
shall lead to the truth? After all, he was glad. The strain, borne so
long, was gradually killing him. A little finger, to have stopped the
wheel of so great a scheme! Irony!
"Your Highness," he said, his voice soft and strangely clear, "I have
been waiting for this hour.
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