“Alzo! wie gehts!” a cordial voice cried out in German behind Schleifmann.
Pums did not finish his sentence. He had taken on a sinister pallor; his chocolate-colored eyeballs were even more haggard and prominent, as if they were on the point of jumping out of their sockets. Schleifmann turned round and recognized Herschstein.
The head of the Black Band entered by a side door, his hat on his head, smiling, without knocking, as if he were at home, as master; brilliantine shone in silvery eddies in his patriarchal gray beard.
When he caught sight of Schleifmann, he recoiled prudently; his venerable face took on a different expression and he murmured modestly: “Ah! you are busy!”
Pums, who was diligently sorting some papers, did not reply. Schleifmann examined them both in turn, a flame of contempt in his eyes.
“Eh, M. Pums!” he commanded sarcastically. “I am waiting.... Here is one of them.... Go ahead!... Let him know what you think of it.... Tell him! Ha! You have forgotten! Patience, M. Herschstein.... It will come.... M. Pums has a heartload to let out for you!... He is trying to find.... Sit down!”
“What does this mean?” Herschstein asked, icily.
“I shall explain, my dear friend!” stammered Pums. “We were talking of M. Rainda brother, who is losing on the mines.... M. Schleifmann is joking....”
“Am I joking!” the Galician said, smashing his fist on the table so violently that the ink came out of the inkstand. “Truly, here is ground for joking indeed!”
He eyed them both.