"Monsieur," he accused coldly, "you tinge commonplace incidents with
melodrama."
"Days ago--er--Jokai of Vienna," went on Carl thoughtfully, "I
dispatched a formal communication to your country. Why has it been
ignored? Why did my first inkling of its effect come in the sight of
your face in suspicious territory? And why, Monsieur," purred Carl
softly, "did you seek to kill me by a trick?"
"Monsieur, you delayed me. I am hot of temper--"
"And kill whoever angers you? My dear Jokai, that's absurd. As for
your singular indifference to the burning car--that's easy. You'd
stolen it. But why?"
He smiled slightly and picked up his flute. With infinite softness a
waltz danced lightly through the quiet room. To such a fanciful, eerie
piping might the ghost of a child have danced. Then without pause or
warning it swung dramatically into a stirring melody of power and
dignity.
The wretched man by the table buried his face in his hands and groaned.
"Ah!" said Carl softly. "So Monsieur has heard that tune before? That
in itself is illuminating."
With a leer Hunch entered and deposited a tray upon the table. Carl
poured himself some whiskey and pushed the decanter toward his guest
with a significant glance. Jokai of Vienna poured and drank with a
shudder of nausea.
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