‘Won’t make any difference,’ replied Vandeloup, airily; ‘I turned my acquaintances into friends long ago, and then borrowed money off them; result: my social circle is nil. Friends,’ went on M. Vandeloup, reflectively, ‘are excellent as friends, but damnable as bankers.’
Gollipeck chuckled, and rubbed his hands, for this cynicism pleased him. Suddenly his eye caught the book which the young man had returned.
‘You read this?’ he said, laying his hand on it; ‘good, eh?’
‘Very good, indeed,’ returned M. Vandeloup, smoothly; ‘so kind of you to have lent it to me—all those cases quoted were known to me.’
‘The case of Adele Blondet, for instance, eh?’ asked the old man sharply.
‘Yes, I was present at the trial,’ replied Vandeloup, quietly; ‘the prisoner Octave Braulard was convicted, condemned to death, reprieved, and sent to New Caledonia.’
‘Where he now is,’ said Gollipeck, quickly, looking at him.
‘I presume so,’ replied Vandeloup, lazily. ‘After the trial I never bothered my head about him.’
‘He poisoned his mistress, Adele Blondet,’ said the doctor.
‘Yes,’ answered Vandeloup, leaning forward and looking at Gollipeck, ‘he found she was in love with an Englishman, and poisoned her—you will find it all in the book.’