"An ordinary vengeance," Groll said, nodding, "would have meant nothing to him. I had to find him something that would not only bankrupt you both but crush out of you all youth, ambition, and hope. More—Fargus wished not only all that made life blotted out, but that life itself should be the most unendurable thing to you both. He succeeded. He knew it—strange man! He died happy."
"And he—where was he all that time," Bofinger said dully.
"He—he lay hidden in the safest place in the world," Groll said, looking out at the city with a smile full of malice. "Max Fargus, from the time you began to hunt him high and low—during the whole seven years remained quietly and safely in the house opposite to Sheila."
"Impossible!" Bofinger cried in horror.
"The most possible thing in the world," Groll answered. "Do you know the face of one of your neighbors? I don't."
"Ah, you were well paid for all that!" Bofinger murmured, clenching his fists.
"Of course—of course, naturally. His whole fortune has passed to me."
Bofinger, beside himself with rage, flung himself on the hunchback, crying:
"And if I strangle you, you scoundrel!"
"My dear Bo," Groll said calmly, "open murder fortunately is a transgression we lawyers avoid by instinct. Besides, it is not me you want to throttle but your own fate. What have I done that you wouldn't do if you had the opportunity? There, return to your side and don't make me call for help."