Pfeiffer was looking at him now, a cold sneer on his face.
“If he comes back, I do not,” he said. “This man is frightening me. Twice the police have been here—three times . . . you remember the woman. The man is a danger, Herr Doktor. I told you he was the day you brought him here.”
“He can dress in the gentleman-club manner,” said the doctor gently.
“Pshaw!” said the other scornfully. “Is he not an actor who has postured and painted his face and thrown about his legs for so many marks a week?”
“If he does not come back I shall be relieved,” murmured the doctor. “Though it would be a mistake to leave him so that these cunning men could pry into our affairs.”
Pfeiffer said nothing: he understood his instructions; there was nothing to be said.
“When does he go?”
“Early to-morrow, before daylight. You will see him, of course.”
He said something in a low tone, that only Pfeiffer heard. The shadow who stood in stockinged feet listening at the door only heard two words. Gurther grinned in the darkness; his bright eyes grew luminous. He heard his companion move towards the door and sped up the stairs without a sound.