Breuil stared at me in consternation. It is only fair to say that he had not been with me very long.
I could see that some objection was trembling on the tip of his tongue. He had learned, however, that I expect my staff not to criticize, but to obey.
“You may speak,” I said indulgently, “if you have anything to say.”
“I was about to remark, sir, that you are not in the least like Petrovitch.”
“Think again,” I said mildly.
He gave me an intelligent look.
“You are much about the same height!” he exclaimed.
“Exactly.”
“But his friends, who see him every day—surely they cannot be deceived? And then his business—his correspondence—but perhaps you are able to feign handwriting?”
I smiled. The good Breuil had passed from one extreme to the other. Instead of doubting me, he was crediting me too much.