Kitabı oku: «The Everlasting Arms», sayfa 7
CHAPTER XII
The Day of Destiny
Dick Faversham wiped away the beads of perspiration that stood thick upon his forehead. It seemed to him that he was surrounded by peculiar influences, that forces were at work which he could not understand. In one sense he did not at all believe in the story that Count Romanoff had told him. It appeared to him chimerical, unconvincing.
It did not seem at all likely that a man of Mr. Bidlake's experience and mental acumen could have been so deceived. This subtle-minded lawyer, who had lived in London for so many years and had been spoken of as one of the most astute and level-headed men in the profession, would not be likely to communicate news of such great importance to him without being absolutely certain of his ground. He had shown him details of everything, too, and Mr. Bidlake was absolutely certain that Mr. Anthony Riggleton was dead, that he was murdered near Melbourne. The proofs of this were demonstrated in a hundred ways. No, he did not believe in Romanoff's story.
Besides, it was absurd, on the face of it. Who was this Count Romanoff? He knew little or nothing of him. Though he owed his life to him, he knew nothing of his history or antecedents. He was afraid of him, too. He did not like his cynical way of looking at things, nor understand his mockery of current morality. And should he believe the bare word of such a man?
And yet he did believe him. At the back of his mind he felt sure that he had spoken the truth.
It came to him with ghastly force that he was not the owner of this fine old house, and of all the wealth that during the last few weeks he had almost gloated over. There was something in the tones of Romanoff's voice – something in his mocking yet intense way of speaking that convinced him in spite of himself.
And the fact maddened him. To be poor now after these few brief weeks of riches would drive him mad. He had not begun to enjoy yet. He had not carried out the plans which had been born in his mind. He had only just entered into possession, and had been living the life of a pattern young man. But he had meant to enjoy, to drink the cup of pleasure to the very dregs.
His mind swept like lightning over the conversation which had taken place, and every word of it was burnt into his brain. What did the Count mean by telling him that he could retain everything? Why did he persist in urging that he had hurried from Australia to England to save him from losing everything? What did he mean by telling him that this was his hour of destiny – that on his decision would depend the future of his life?
"You mean – to say then, that – that – " he stammered, after a long, painful silence.
"That Anthony Riggleton, the legal heir of old Charles Faversham, is alive," interrupted Romanoff. "I myself have seen him, have talked with him."
"Does he know that he is – is the rightful heir?"
"Not yet," and Romanoff smiled. "I took good care of that."
"You mean – "
"I mean that I did not save your life for nothing. When I had fully convinced myself that he was – who he said he was – I of course reflected on what it meant. I called to mind what you had told me on that island, and I saw how his being alive would affect you."
"How did you know? I did not tell you the terms of the will. I did not know them myself."
"Does it matter how I knew? Anyhow, he – Riggleton – would guess."
"How did he know?"
Romanoff shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know, my dear fellow? But one can easily guess. He knew he was next-of-kin to old Charles Faversham, and would naturally think he would inherit his wealth. But that is not all. Australia, although a long way from England, is not away from the lines of communication. Melbourne is quite a considerable city. It has newspapers, telephones, cablegrams, and a host of other things. But one thing Anthony Riggleton did not know: he did not know that the terms of the will were published in the Melbourne newspapers. He was afraid to go near Melbourne, in fact. He thought it best for the world to think of him as dead. Indeed, he paid a man to personate him in Melbourne, and that man paid the penalty of his deceit by his life."
"It's anything but clear to me."
"Then I'll make it clear. Riggleton had enemies in Melbourne whom it was necessary for him to see, but whom he was personally afraid to meet. He had served them very shabbily, and they had threatened him with unpleasant things. He had as a friend a man who resembled him very closely, and he offered this friend a sum of money if he would go to Melbourne and personate him. This man, ignorant of his danger, accepted the offer – now, do you see?"
After he had asked many questions about this – questions which Romanoff answered freely – Dick looked long and steadily at a picture of old Charles Faversham which hung on the wall. He was trying to co-ordinate the story – trying to understand it.
"And where is Anthony Riggleton now?"
"He is in England."
"In England! Then – then – "
"Exactly," interrupted Romanoff. "You see what I meant when I said that the foundations of your position were very insecure. I do not imagine that Lady Blanche Huntingford would think very seriously about Dick Faversham if she knew the whole truth."
"But – but – in England?"
"Exactly. In England."
"But you say he does not know – the truth?"
"No. He may guess it, though. Who knows?"
"But why did you not tell me this last night? Why wait till now before letting me know?"
Again Romanoff smiled; he might be enjoying himself.
"Because I like you, my friend. Because I wanted to see the state of your mind, and to know whether it was possible to help you."
"To help me?"
"To help you. I saw the kind of man you were. I saw what such wealth as you thought you possessed would mean to you. I saw, too, to what uses you could turn the power that riches would give you. So I made my plans."
"But you say he is in England. If so, he will know – all!"
"No, he does not. I took good care of that."
"But he will find out."
Romanoff laughed. "No, my friend, I have taken care of everything. As I told you, I like you, and I want you to be a great figure in the life of your country. That is why you are safe – for the present."
Again Dick wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. It seemed to him as though he were standing on a precipice, while beneath him were yawning depths of darkness. All he had hoped for was mocking him, and he saw himself sinking under the stress of circumstances, just as on that terrible night he felt himself sinking in the deep waters. But there were no arms outstretched to save him, nor friendly help near him. He looked around the room, noble in its proportions, and handsomely appointed, and thought of all it suggested. He remembered his last interview with Mr. Bidlake, when that gentleman gave him an account of his possessions, and told him of the approximate amount of his fortune. And now it would all go to this man who was not even aware of the truth. It was all bewildering, maddening. Before he had properly begun to taste of the sweets of fortune they were being dashed from his lips. He felt as though he were losing his senses, that his brain was giving way under the stress of the news he had heard.
Then his innate manhood began to assert itself. If what Romanoff had said were true, he must bear it. But, of course, he would not yield without a struggle. He would take nothing on the bare word of a man who, after all, was a stranger. Everything should be proved up to the hilt before he relinquished possession.
"Safe for the present!" Dick repeated, and there was a note of angry scorn in his voice. "Of course, if – if you are not mistaken, there is no question of safety."
"No question of safety?"
"Certainly not. If Anthony Riggleton is alive, and if he is the true heir to old Charles Faversham, he must make his claim, as I assume he will."
"Then you will yield without a struggle?" and there was a peculiar intonation in Romanoff's voice.
"No," cried Dick, "I shall not yield without a struggle. I shall place the whole matter in Bidlake's hands, and – and if I'm a pauper, I am – that's all."
"I know a better way than that."
"I don't understand you."
"No, but you will in a minute. Faversham, there's no need for you to fix up anything, no need for anyone to know what only you and I know."
"Look here," and Dick's voice trembled. "Are you sure that this fellow you talk about is Anthony Riggleton – and that he is the lawful heir?"
Romanoff gave Dick a quick, searching glance; then he gave a peculiar laugh. "Am I sure that the man is Anthony Riggleton? Here's the photograph he gave me of himself. I compared the photograph with the man, and I'm not likely to be mistaken. The photograph is the exact representation of the man. You have photographs of Riggleton in this house; compare them. Besides, he's been here repeatedly; he's known, I imagine, to the servants, to the neighbours. If he is allowed to make a claim, it will not be a question of Roger Tichborne and Arthur Orton over again, my friend. He will be able to prove his rights."
"What do you mean by saying, 'if he is allowed to make his claim'?" asked Dick hoarsely. "Of course he'll be allowed."
"Why of course?
"Naturally he will."
"That depends on you. Did I not tell you that this was your hour of destiny?"
"Then the matter is settled. I will not usurp another man's rights. If he's the lawful owner, he shall have his own. Of course, he will have to prove it."
"You don't mean that?"
"Of course I do. Why not?"
"Because it would be criminal madness – the act of a fool!"
"It is the only attitude for a decent fellow."
Again Romanoff let his piercing eyes fall on Dick's face. He seemed to be studying him afresh, as though he were trying to read his innermost thoughts.
"Listen, my dear fellow," and the Count calmly cut the end of a fresh cigar. "I want to discuss this matter with you calmly, and I want our discussion to be entirely free from sentimental rubbish. To begin with, there is no doubt that the man Anthony Riggleton is alive, and that he is the legal owner of all Charles Faversham's fabulous fortune. Of that I've no doubt. If he came here everyone would recognise him, while there is not a lawyer, not a judge or jury in the land, who would not acclaim him the owner of all which you thought yours. But, as I said, I like you. You were meant to be a rich man; you were meant to enjoy what riches can give you. And of this I am sure, Faversham: poverty after this would mean hell to you. Why, man, think what you can have – titles, position, power, the love of beautiful women, and a thousand things more. If you want to enter public life the door is open to you. With wealth like yours a peerage is only a matter of arrangement. As for Lady Blanche Huntingford – " and the Count laughed meaningly.
"But what is the use of talking like that if nothing really belongs to me?" cried Dick.
"First of all, Faversham," went on the Count, as though Dick had not spoken, "get rid of all nonsense."
"Nonsense? I don't understand."
"I mean all nonsense about right and wrong, about so-called points of honour and that sort of thing. There is no right, and no wrong in the conventional sense of the word. Right! wrong! Pooh, they are only bogys invented by priests in days of darkness, in order to obtain power. It is always right to do the thing that pays – the thing that gives you happiness – power. The German philosophy is right there. Do the thing you can do. That's common sense."
"It's devilish!" exclaimed Dick.
"Your mind's unhinged, excited, or you wouldn't say so," replied Romanoff. "Now, look at me," and he fastened Dick's eyes by his intense gaze. "Do I look like a fanatic, a fool? Don't I speak with the knowledge of the world's wisdom in my mind? I've travelled in all the countries in the world, my friend, and I've riddled all their philosophies, and I tell you this: there is no right, no wrong. Life is given to us to enjoy, to drink the cup of pleasure to its depths, to press from the winepress all its sweets, and to be happy."
He spoke in low, earnest tones, and as he did so, Dick felt as though his moral manhood were being sapped. The glitter of the Count's eyes fascinated him, and while under their spell he saw as the Count saw, felt as he felt.
And yet he was afraid. There was something awesome in all this – something unholy.
"Look here!" and Dick started to his feet. "What do you mean by coming to me in this way? Why should you so coolly assert that the moralities of the centuries are nonsense? Who are you? What are you?"
Again the Count laughed.
"Who am I? What am I?" he repeated. "You remember Napoleon Bonaparte's famous words: 'I am not a man. I am a thing. I am a force. Right and wrong do not exist for me. I make my own laws, my own morals.' Perhaps I could say the same, Faversham."
"Napoleon found out his mistake, though," protested Dick.
"Did he? Who knows? Besides, better taste the sweets of power, if only for a few years, than be a drudge, a nonentity, a poor, struggling worm all your days."
"But what do you want? What have you in your mind?"
"This, Faversham. If you will listen to me you will treat Anthony Riggleton as non-existent – "
"As non-existent?"
"Yes, you can with safety – absolute safety; and then, if you agree to my proposal, all you hope for, all you dream of, shall be yours. You shall remain here as absolute owner without a shadow of doubt or a shadow of suspicion, and – enjoy. You shall have happiness, my friend – happiness. Did I not tell you that this was your day of destiny?"
CHAPTER XIII
The Invisible Hand
Again Dick felt as though he were gripped by an irresistible power, and that this power was evil. It was true that the Count sat in the chair near him, faultlessly dressed, urbane, smiling, with all the outward appearance of a polished man of the world; all the same, Dick felt that an evil influence dominated the room. The picture which Romanoff made him see was beautiful beyond words, and he beheld a future of sensuous ease, of satisfied ambition, of indescribable delights. And what he saw seemed to dull his moral sense, to undermine his moral strength. Moreover, the man had by his news undermined the foundations of life, shattered the hopes he had nourished, and thus left him unable to fight.
"Tell me that this is a – a joke on your part," Dick said at length. "Of course it's not true."
"Of course it is true."
"Well, I'll have it proved, anyhow. Everything shall be sifted to the bottom."
"How?"
"I'll go and see Bidlake to-morrow. I'll tell him what you've said."
"You will do no such thing." The Count spoke in the most nonchalant manner.
"Why not? Indeed, I shall."
"You will not. I'll tell you why. First, because it would be criminally insane, and second, because you would be cutting your own throat."
"Please explain."
"Understand," replied Romanoff, "that this is really nothing to me after all. I do not benefit by your riches, or lose by your poverty. Why, I wonder, am I taking an interest in the matter?" And for the moment he seemed to be reflecting. "I suppose it is because I like you – of course that is it. Besides, I saved your life, and naturally one has an interest in the life one has saved. But to explain: accept for the moment the conventional standards of right and wrong, good and evil, and what is the result? Suppose you give up everything to Riggleton – what follows? You give up all this to an unclean beast. You put power in the hands of a man who hasn't an elevated thought or desire. You, now – if you are wise, and retain what you have – can do some good with your money. You can bring comfort to the people on your estates; you can help what you believe worthy causes. You, Faversham, are a gentleman at heart, and would always act like one. Mind, I don't accept conventional morality; it is no more to me than so much sawdust. But I do respect the decencies of life. My education has thrown me among people who have a sense of what's fit and proper. Anyhow, judging from your own standards, you would be doing an immoral thing by handing this great fortune to Riggleton."
"Tell me about him," and Dick felt a tightening at the throat.
"Tell you about him! An unsavoury subject, my friend. A fellow with the mind of a pig, the tastes of a pig. What are his enjoyments? His true place is in a low-class brothel. If he inherited Wendover Park, he would fill these beautiful rooms with creatures of his own class – men and women."
The Count did not raise his voice, but Dick realised its intensity; and again he felt his influence – felt that he was being dominated by a personality stronger than his own.
"No, no," he continued, and he laughed quietly as he spoke; "copy-book morality has no weight with me. But I trust I am a gentleman. If, to use your own term, I sin, I will sin like a gentleman; I will enjoy myself like a gentleman. But this man is dirty. He wallows in filth – wallows in it, and rejoices in it. That is Anthony Riggleton. Morality! I scorn it. But decency, the behaviour of a gentleman, to act as a gentleman under every circumstance – that is a kind of religion with me! Now, then, Faversham, would it not be criminal madness to place all this in the hands of such a loathsome creature when you can so easily prevent it?"
Of course, the argument was commonplace enough. It was a device by which thousands have tried to salve their consciences, and to try to find an excuse for wrong-doing. Had some men spoken the same words, Dick might not have been affected, but uttered by Romanoff they seemed to undermine the foundations of his reasoning power.
"But if he is in England?" he protested weakly.
"He is, but what then?"
"He must know; he must. He is not an idiot, I suppose?"
"No; he is cunning with a low kind of cunning – the cunning of a sensual beast. Some would say he is clever."
"Then he must find out the truth."
"Not if you say he must not."
"What have I to do with it?"
"Everything," and Romanoff's eyes seemed to be searching into Dick's innermost soul.
"But how? I do not understand," and he nervously wiped his moist hands.
"Say so, and he must be got rid of."
"How?"
Romanoff laughed quietly. "These are good cigars, Faversham," he said, like one who was vastly enjoying himself. "Oh, you can do that easily enough," he continued.
"How?" asked Dick. He felt his eyes were hot as he turned them towards the other.
"I said treat him as though he were non-existent. Well, let him be non-existent."
"You mean – you mean – " and Dick's voice could scarcely be recognised.
"Why not?" asked the Count carelessly. "The fellow is vermin – just dirty vermin. But he is a danger – a danger to the community, a danger to you. Why, then, if it can be done easily, secretly, and without anyone having the slightest chance of knowing, should you not rid the world of such a creature? Especially when you could save all this," and he looked around the room, "as well as marry that divine creature, and live the life you long to live."
"Never!" cried Dick. "What? – murder! Not for all the wealth ever known. No, no – my God, no!"
"If there are good deeds in the world, that would be a good deed," persisted Romanoff. "You would be a benefactor to your race, your country," and there was a touch of pleading in his voice. "Why, man, think; I have him safe – safe! No one could know, and it would be a praiseworthy deed."
"Then why not do it yourself?" cried Dick. There was a sneer as well as anger in his voice.
"I am not the next heir to the Faversham estates," replied Romanoff. "What does it matter to me who owns all that old Charles Faversham gained during his life?"
"Then why suggest such a thing? Why, it's devilish!"
"Don't – please, don't be melodramatic," the Count drawled. "Would you not kill a rat that ate your corn? Would you not shoot any kind of vermin that infested your house? Well, Riggleton is vermin, human vermin if you like, but still vermin, and he is not fit to live. If I, Romanoff, were in your position, I would have no more hesitation in putting him out of existence than your gamekeeper would have in shooting a dog with rabies. But, then, I am not in your position. I have nothing to gain. I only take a friendly interest in you. I have hurried to you with all speed the moment I knew of your danger, and I have told you how you can rid the world of a coarse, dirty-minded animal, and at the same time save for yourself the thing nearest your heart."
"Did he come in the same vessel with you?"
"Suffice to say that I know he is in England, and in safe keeping."
"Where? How? England has laws to protect everyone."
"That does not matter. I will tell you if you like; but you would be none the wiser."
"Then you have arranged this?"
"If you like – yes."
"But why?"
"Still the same silly question. Have you no sense of proportion, Faversham? Haven't I told you again and again?"
Dick was almost gasping for breath, and as he buried his head in his hands, he tried to understand, to realise. In calmer moments his mind would doubtless have pierced the cheap sophistry of the Count, and discarded it. But, as I have said, he was greatly excited, bewildered. Never as now did he desire wealth. Never as now had the thought of winning Lady Blanche seemed the great thing in life to be hoped for. And he knew the Count was right – knew that without his money she would no more think of marrying him than of marrying the utmost stranger. And yet his heart craved after her. He longed to possess her – to call her his own. He saw her as he had never seen her before, a splendid creature whose beauty outshone that of any woman he had ever seen, as the sun outshone the moon.
And this Anthony Riggleton, whom the Count described as vermin, stood in his way. Because of a quibble on his part this loathsome thing would ruin his future, dash his hopes to the ground, blacken his life.
But the alternative!
"No, of course not!" he cried.
"You refuse?"
"Certainly I do. I'm not a murderer."
"Very well, go your own way. Go to your Mr. Bidlake, see him shrug his shoulders and laugh, and then watch while your cousin – your cousin! – turns this glorious old place into a cesspool."
"Yes; rather than stain my hands in – I say, Romanoff," and the words passed his lips almost in spite of himself, "there must be some deep reason why you – you say and do all this. Do you expect to gain anything, in any way, because of my – retaining possession of my uncle's wealth?"
For the first time the Count seemed to lose possession over himself. He rose to his feet, his eyes flashing.
"What!" he cried; "do you mean that I, Romanoff, would profit by your poor little riches? What is all this to me? Why, rich as you thought you were, I could buy up all the Faversham estates – all – all, and then not know that my banking account was affected. I, Romanoff, seek to help a man whom I had thought of as my friend for some paltry gain! Good-night, Mr. Richard Faversham, you may go your own way."
"Stop!" cried Dick, almost carried away by the vehemence of the other; "of course, I did not mean – "
"Enough," and the Count interrupted him by a word and a laugh. "Besides, you do not, cannot, understand. But to rid your mind of all possible doubt I will show you something. Here is my account with your Bank of England. This is for pocket-money, pin-money, petty cash as your business men call it. There was my credit yesterday. In the light of that, do you think that I need to participate in your fortune, huge as you regard it?"
Dick was startled as he saw the amount. There could be no doubt about it. The imprimatur of the Bank of England was plainly to be seen, and the huge figures stood out boldly.
"I'm sure I apologise," stammered Dick. "I only thought that – that – you see – "
"All right," laughed the Count, "let it be forgotten. Besides, have I not told you more than once that I am interested in you? I have shown you my interest, and – "
"Of course you have," cried Dick. "I owe you my life; but for you I should not be alive to-day."
"Just so. I want to see you happy, Faversham. I want you to enjoy life's sweetness. I want you to be for ever free from the haunting fear that this Anthony Riggleton shall ever cross your path. That is why – "
He hesitated, as though he did not know what to say next.
"Yes," asked Dick, "why what?"
"That is why I want to serve you further."
"Serve me further? How?"
"Suppose I get rid of Riggleton for you?"
"I do not understand."
"Suppose I offer to get rid of Riggleton for you? Suppose without your having anything to do with him, without knowing where he is, I offer to remove him for ever from your path – would you consent?"
"I consent?"
"Yes; I must have that. Would you give it?"
"You – you – that is, you ask me if I will consent to – to his – his murder?"
"Just that, my friend. That must be – else why should I do it? But – but I love you, Faversham – as if you were my son, and I would do it for your happiness. Of course, it's an unpleasant thing to do, even although I have no moral scruples, but I'll do it for you."
Again Dick felt as though the ground were slipping from under his feet. Never before was he tempted as he was tempted now, never did it seem so easy to consent to wrong. And he would not be responsible. He had suggested nothing, pleaded nothing. His part would be simply to be blindly quiescent. His mind was confused to every issue save one. He had only to consent, and this man Riggleton, the true owner of everything, would be removed for ever.
"And if I do not?" he asked.
"Then nothing more need be said. But look at me, Faversham, and tell me if you will be such a fool. If there is any guilt, I bear it; if there is any danger, I face it; do you refuse, Faversham? I only make the offer for your sake."
Again Dick felt the awful eyes of the Count piercing him; it was as though all his power of judgment, all his volition were ebbing away. At that moment he felt incapable of resistance.
"And if I consent?" he asked weakly.
"Of course you will, you will, you will," and the words were repeated with peculiar intensity, while the eyes of the two met. "I only make one stipulation, and I must make it because you need a friend. I must make it binding for your sake."
He took a piece of paper from a desk and scribbled a few words.
"There, read," he said.
Dick read:
"I promise to put myself completely under the guidance of Count Romanoff with regard to the future of my life."
"There, sign that, Faversham," and the Count placed the pen in his hand.
Without will, and almost without knowledge, Dick took the pen.
"What do you want me to do?" asked Dick dully.
"Sign that paper. Just put 'Richard Faversham' and the date. I will do the rest."
"But – but if I do this, I shall be signing away my liberty. I shall make myself a slave to you."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow. Why should I interfere with your liberty?"
"I don't know; but this paper means that." He was still able to think consecutively, although his thoughts were cloudy and but dimly realised.
"Think, Faversham. I am undertaking a dirty piece of work for your sake. Why? I am doing it because I want you to be free from Anthony Riggleton, and I am doing it because I take a deep interest in you."
"But why should I sign this?"
In spite of the Count's influence over him, he had a dull feeling that there was no need for such a thing. Even although he had tacitly consented to Romanoff's proposal he saw no necessity for binding himself.
"I'll tell you why. It's because I know you – because I read your mind like a book. I want to make you my protégé, and I want you to cut a figure in the life of the world. After all, in spite of Charles Faversham's wealth, you are a nobody. You are a commoner all compact. But I can make you really great. I am Romanoff. You asked me once if I were of the great Russian family, and I answered yes. Do you know what that means? It means that no door is closed to me – that I can go where I will, do what I will. It means that if I desire a man's aggrandisement, it is an accomplished fact. Not only are the delights of this country mine for the asking, but my name is an Open Sesame in every land. My name and my influence are a key to unlock every door; my hand can draw aside the curtain of every delight. And there are delights in the world that you know nothing of, never dreamt of. As my protégé I want them to be yours. A great name, great power, glorious pleasures, the smile of beautiful women, delights such as the author of The Arabian Nights only dimly dreamt of – it is my will that you shall have them all. Charles Faversham's money and my influence shall give you all this and more. But I am not going to have a fretful, puling boy objecting all the time; I am not going to have my plans for your happiness frustrated by conscience and petty quibbles about what is good and evil. That is why I insist on your signing that paper."
Romanoff spoke in low tones, but every word seemed to be laden with meanings hitherto unknown to Dick. He saw pictures of exquisite delights, of earthly paradises, of joys that made life an ecstasy.
And still something kept his hand still. He felt rather than reasoned that something was wrong – that all was wrong. He was in an abnormal state of mind; he knew that the influences by which he was surrounded were blinding him to truth, and giving him distorted fancies about life's values.
"No," he said doggedly; "I won't sign, and I won't consent to this devilish deed."
Again Romanoff laughed. "Look at me, Dick, my boy," he said. "You are not a milksop; you were made to live your whole life. Fancy you being a clerk in an office, a store – a poor little manikin keeping body and soul together in order to do the will of some snivelling tradesman! Think of it! Think of Anthony Riggleton living here, or in London, in Paris, in India – or wherever he pleases – squandering his money, and satiated with pleasure, while you – you – Pooh! I know you. I see you holding Lady Blanche in your arms. I see you basking in the smiles of beautiful women all over the world. I see the name of Faversham world-wide in its power. I see – " and the Count laughed again.
