Yet for one moment it seemed to Lorand as if both were laughing—the face of the dead and the face of Death, but it was only for a moment; and perhaps, too, that was merely an illusion.
Then the robber addressed her in a strong, authoritative voice:
"Your money, quickly!"
The woman took her purse, and without a word threw it down on the table before him.
The robber snatched it up and by the light of the spirit began to examine its contents.
"What is this?" he asked wrathfully.
"Money," replied the lady briefly, beginning to make a tooth-pick from a chicken bone with her silver-handled antique knife.
"Money! But how much?" bawled the thief.
"Four hundred florins."
"Four hundred florins," he shrieked, casting the purse down on the table. "Did I come here for four hundred florins? Have I been lounging about here a week for four hundred florins? Where is the rest?"