When Nogam had left the room, Sturm, remarking the slight frown that knitted Victor’s brows, ventured an impertinence couched in a form of respectful enquiry:
“Excellency, perhaps you trust that fellow too much, hein?”
“You think so?”
“He is too perfect, if you ask me—never makes a false move.”
“Either he is what he seems, in which event a false move would be against nature; or he is not, and knows one slip would mean his death.”
“Still, I maintain you trust him too much.”
“With what?”
“The freedom of your house, the opportunity to spy, to get to know who comes to see you and when, to listen at doors.”
“You have caught him listening at doors?”
“Not yet. But in time—”