"My wife!" he exclaimed, with a sufficient change to shew how this had touched him.
"Yes. Your wife. She was in my rooms when these men came."
He drew in a deep breath while he looked at me with eyes of hate. I had got right between the joints of his armour of impassivity. It was a cruel thrust; but I had an ugly game to play, and was forced to hit hard.
He seemed to struggle to repress his private feelings and to remain the impassive official. But human nature and his jealousy beat him, and his next question came with a jerk that shewed the effort behind it.
"What was she doing there?" His tone was the essence of harsh bitterness.
"What was she doing there?" I echoed, as if in the greatest astonishment. "Why, what should she be doing but calling with my sister? They are there now, keeping guard over your—assistant."
He turned away for a moment to prevent my seeing in his face the relief which I could hear in his voice as he answered:—
"You are an even bolder man than I thought."
"I don't understand you, of course; but I have need to be bold," I retorted, "with you against me ready to plan my private execution. They're heavy odds. But now, perhaps, you'll answer my question—Why do you do this?"
"There might be many reasons—if it were true," he answered in the same curt tone he had first used.