But wise people thought differently.
"You don't know Etta," he said, half shyly. "She is full of sympathy and
pity for these people."
Steinmetz bowed gravely.
"I have no doubt of it."
"And yet you say that she must not be told."
"Certainly not. A secret is considerably strained if it be divided
between two people. Stretching it to three will probably break it. You
can tell her when you are married. Does she consent to live in Osterno?"
"Oh, yes. I think so."
"Um--m!"
"What did you say?"
"Um--m," repeated Steinmetz, and the conversation somewhat naturally
showed signs of collapse.
At this moment the door was opened, and a servant in bright livery, with
powdered wig, silk stockings, and a countenance which might have been of
wood, brought in a letter on a silver tray.
Paul took the square envelope and turned it over, displaying as he did
so a coronet in black and gold on the corner, like a stamp.
Karl Steinmetz saw the coronet. He never took his quiet, unobtrusive
glance from Paul's face while he opened the letter and read it.
"A fresh difficulty," said Paul, throwing the note across to his
companion.
Steinmetz looked grave while he unfolded the thick stationery.
"Dear Paul [the letter ran]: I hear you are at Osterno and that the
Moscow doctor is in your country. We are in great distress at
Thors--cholera, I fear.
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