“Ah, Lutz,” Grey greeted him composedly, taking great care to erase all modulation from his tone, “there is somewhere, probably among poor Herr Schlippenbach’s effects, a receipt or check for a box at a railway station here in Paris—at the Gare du Nord, in fact. I wish you would see if you can find it for me.”
“Yes, Herr Arndt.” His gaze was on the carpet.
“Immediately, Lutz.”
“Yes, Herr Arndt.”
“That is all.”
When he had gone Grey began pacing the floor like a madman, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing.
“Was ever guilt more apparent?” he asked himself. “It is written all over him.”
And he wondered how he had controlled himself, how he had refrained from catching him by the throat and strangling a confession from him without more ado.