"How much?"
"Half."
"You did well," Groll said with just a tinge of irony.
"Well!" Bofinger repeated with an oath. "I've acted like a fool throughout! And I thought myself so clever. Then I managed to work into the old fellow's confidence and everything went smoothly and I thought I saw a chance of doing something big. He must have been worth close to a million then."
"Go on—" said Groll as he stopped. "I'll ask you some questions later. Only what was the woman's name and who was she?"
"Sheila Vaughn or Morissey, a sort of third-rate actress," he answered.
The quick professional attitude of Groll recalled to Bofinger the traditions of their office. He forgot the personal note and lapsed into a technical voice, as he related the details of Fargus's departure, his suspicions, his discovery from Sheila of her husband's whereabouts, his tracing the miser to the scene of the hold-up, the fruitless efforts to discover the body and his return to Sheila with the news.
"You'll admit," he concluded doggedly, "That the situation was elegant. I had only to marry the widow to scoop in a fat fortune."