“Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening,” she answered, and a touch of her old gaiety came into her voice. Kahn was already seated, and now she motioned Straussmann to follow. She began slicing the cold potted beef and asked them about sugar in their tea, adding, “Oscar will be here soon.” To Kahn she showed only a very little trace of coldness, of indecision.
“No,” Straussmann said, still standing, legs apart: “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like a word or two with Kahn.” They stepped off the porch together.
“Kahn,” he said, going directly to the point, “listen,” he took hold of Kahn’s coat by the lapel. “You have known Emma longer than I have, you’ve got to break it to her.” He flourished a large key under Kahn’s nose, as he spoke.
“I’ve got him locked up in the out-house safe enough for the present, but we must do something immediately.”
“What’s the matter?” A strange, pleasant but cold sweat broke out upon Kahn’s forehead.
“I found Oscar sitting beside the body of his sweetheart, what’s-her-name; he had cut her throat with a kitchen knife, yes, with a kitchen knife—he seemed calm, but he would say nothing. What shall we do?”
“They’ll say he was a degenerate from the start——”
“Those who live by the flesh—eh?”
“No,” Kahn said, in a confused voice, “that’s not it.”