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Only one thing he must know. "Where is Count Sykypri?" he asked hoarsely. "Mimo has gone away, back to his own country," she said simply, wondering at his tone. "Alas! I shall perhaps never see him again." A petrifying sensation of astonishment crept over Tristram. With all her meek gentleness she had still the attitude of a perfectly innocent person.
No, he must play his part until he could consult with Francis Markrute, learn all the truth, and then concoct some plan. Out of all the awful ruin of his life he could at least save his name. And after some concentrated moments of agony he mastered himself at last sufficiently to go to his room and dress for dinner. But Count Mimo Sykypri would get no telegram that night!
Only, her uncle had said the day before the wedding, "I beg of you not to mention the family disgrace of your mother to your husband nor speak to him of the man Sykypri for a good long time if you ever need." And she had acquiesced. "For," Francis Markrute had reasoned to himself, "if the boy dies, as Morley thinks there is every likelihood that he will, why should Tristram ever know?"
For when the beautiful wife of Maurice Grey, the misanthropic and eccentric Englishman who lived in a castle near Prague, ran off with Count Mimo Sykypri, her daughter, then aged thirteen, had run with her, and the pair had been wiped off the list of the family.
Countess Shulski was silent for a few moments, while both Mimo and Mirko watched her face anxiously. She had thrown back her veil. "And supposing you do not sell the 'Apache, Mimo? Your own money does not come in until Christmas; mine is all gone until January, and it is the cold winter approaching and cold is not good for Mirko. What then?" Count Sykypri moved uneasily.
And Maurice Grey, after cursing them both and making a will depriving them of everything, shut himself up in his castle, and steadily drank himself to death in less than a year. And the brother of the beautiful Mrs. Grey, Francis Markrute, never forgave her either. He refused to receive her or hear news of her, even after poor little Mirko was born and she married Count Sykypri.
If they were able to buy some linen sheets and a new suit of clothes for each it would be much better to stay for the present, until Mirko's going to Bournemouth should be completely settled. "And even then," Count Sykypri said, "it will do for me. No one cooks garlic here, and there is no canary!"
In spite of Mirko's care and watching of his father that gentleman was capable of giving one of them to a beggar if the beggar's face and story touched him, and any of the others could go in a present to Mirko or herself to be pawned later, when necessity called. The case was hopeless as far as money was concerned with Count Sykypri.
"Your own admirable taste will direct you. I understand that in the days of your late husband you were a beautifully dressed woman, so you will know all the best places to go to. But please to remember, while I give you unlimited resources for you to do what I wish, I trust to your honor that you will bestow none of them upon the man Sykypri.
"You are so good to us, Chérisette," the man Mimo said. "You have, indeed, a sister of the angels, Mirko mio; but soon we shall be all rich and famous. I had a dream last night, and already I have begun a new picture of grays and mists of these strange fogs!" Count Mimo Sykypri was a confirmed optimist. "Meanwhile you are in the one room, in Neville Street, Tottenham Court Road.
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