“What?” he cried. “Not Charles Gething of Messrs. Duke & Peabody?”
French, now keenly observing him without any attempt at concealment, nodded.
“That’s the man. You knew him then?”
“Of course I knew him. Why, it’s my own firm. Good God, to think of poor old Gething! And you say the safe was rifled? You don’t tell me Mr. Duke’s collection of stones is gone?”
“All of it, and money as well. The murderer made a clean sweep.”
Vanderkemp whistled and then swore.
“Tell me about it.”
French was more than ever puzzled. The traveller’s manner, his evident emotion, his questions—all seemed those of an innocent man. He felt doubts arising in his mind; possibly there might be an explanation. . . . He did not at once reply, as he turned over in his mind how he could best surprise the other into an admission of the truth.
But Vanderkemp also was evidently thinking, and suddenly an expression of deeper concern showed on his face. He made as if to speak, then hesitated and a wary look appeared in his eyes. He cleared his throat, then in a changed voice asked, “At what time did it happen?”
French leaned forward swiftly and fixed his eyes on his companion as he said in a low, tense tone, “That’s what I want to ask you, Mr. Vanderkemp.”