"I am behind the times, indeed, if it is esteemed the privilege of a guest to spy upon his host."
"That," said Queed, quietly, "is altogether unjust. You must know that I am not capable of spying on you. I have, on the contrary, been culpably short-sighted. Never once have I doubted anything you told me until you yourself insisted on rubbing doubts repeatedly into my eyes. Professor," he went on rapidly, "are you aware that those familiar with your story say that, when you—that, after your misfortune, you started life again with a bank account of between one and two hundred thousand dollars?"
The black eyes lit up like two shoe-buttons in the sunlight. "That is a wicked falsehood, invented at the time by a lying reporter—"
"Do you assert that everything you have now has been earned since your misfortune?"
"Precisely that."
The voice was indignantly firm, but Queed, looking into the old man's face, read there as plain as day that he was lying.
"Think a moment," he said sorrowfully. "This is pretty serious, you see. Are you absolutely sure that you carried over nothing at all?"
"In the sight of God, I did not. But let me tell you, my friend—"
A chair-leg scraped on the carpeted floor, and Queed was standing, playing his trump card with a grim face.
"We must say good-by, Professor—now. I'll send for my things in the morning."