Steinmetz nodded curtly.
“That was wise,” he said. “You are a clever man, Stipan, but too good for this world and its rascals. Go on.”
“It would appear that Bamborough rode to Tver with the papers, which he handed to his wife. She took them to Paris while he intended to come back to Thors. He had a certain cheap cunning and unbounded impertinence. But—as you know, perhaps—he disappeared.”
“Yes,” said Steinmetz, scratching his forehead with one finger. “Yes—he disappeared.”
Karl Steinmetz had one great factor of success in this world—an infinite capacity for holding his cards.
“One more item,” said the count, in his businesslike, calm way. “Vassili paid that woman seven thousand pounds for the papers.”
“And probably charged his masters ten,” added Steinmetz.
“And now you must go!”
The count rose and looked at his watch—a cheap American article, with a loud tick. He held it out with his queer washed-out smile, and Steinmetz smiled.
The two embraced again—and there was nothing funny in the action. It is a singular thing that the sight of two men kissing is conducive either to laughter or to tears. There is no medium emotion.