telegram on a salver. "Take it," whispered Sapt, and Rischenheim put out his hand.
"Your pardon, my lord, but this has arrived for you," said the man respectfully.
"Take it," whispered Sapt again.
"Give it me," muttered Rischenheim confusedly; and he took the envelope.
The servant bowed and shut the door.
"Open it," commanded Sapt.
"God's curse on you!" cried Rischenheim, in a voice that choked with passion.
"Eh? Oh, you can have no secrets from so good a friend as I am, my lord. Be quick and open it."
The Count began to open it.
"If you tear it up or crumple it, I'll shoot you," said Sapt quietly. "You know you can trust my word. Now read it."
"By God, I won't read it!"
"Read it, I tell you, or say your prayers."
The muzzle was within a foot of his head. He unfolded the telegram. Then he looked at Sapt.
"Read," said the Constable.
"I don't understand what it means," grumbled Rischenheim.
"Possibly I may be able to help you."
"It's nothing but"
"Read, my lord, read!"
Then he read, and this was the telegram:
"Holf, 19 Königstrasse."
