“Fiancée! She—Good God, you’re mad! She is my wife!”
“Wife!… Gott verdampf, der Teufel solls holen! Das ist der Schweinhünd!”
The gutturals exploded from zu Pfeiffer. The sleeve of his white jacket quivered, the arm came up to the gold braided chest and jerked out a silver whistle. He hesitated, glaring at the astonished figure of Birnier. Suddenly zu Pfeiffer sat down by the table. His blue eyes were as hard as malachite.
“Sit down!” he commanded harshly.
Birnier did not appear to notice him. He struck a match and bent over the photograph again.
“Good God!” he muttered. “I—I—don’t understand—O God!”
“Sit down!” shouted zu Pfeiffer. Birnier merely blinked at him.
“Would you mind explaining?” demanded Birnier.
“Explain!… Is your wife Mademoiselle Lucille Charltrain?”
“Why, of course. That is her professional name. [pg 49] But how on earth has this mistake happened? I—I—that is her writing—but it can’t be. I mean it’s impossible.…” Birnier put his hand to his head. “I—God, it can’t be! I or you must be mad! Which is——”