“There was a pause, then the old man turned to me and said quietly:
“‘Do you intend Mme. la Comtesse to suppose that I am not the rightful owner of the property sold to me by her late husband? This house belongs to me now.’
“A sudden blow on the head from a bludgeon would have given me less pain and astonishment. The Countess saw the look of hesitation in my face.
“‘Monsieur,’ she cried, ‘Monsieur!’ She could find no other words.
“‘You are a trustee, are you not?’ I asked.
“‘That is possible.’
“‘Then do you mean to take advantage of this crime of hers?’
“‘Precisely.’
“I went at that, leaving the Countess sitting by her husband’s bedside, shedding hot tears. Gobseck followed me. Outside in the street I separated from him, but he came after me, flung me one of those searching glances with which he probed men’s minds, and said in the husky flute-tones, pitched in a shriller key:
“‘Do you take it upon yourself to judge me?’”