“What time did Mr. Drukker rise yesterday morning?” Vance went on.
“I told you . . . nine o’clock—like always.”
“What time did Mr. Drukker rise?” The insistent, detached quality of his voice was far more ominous than any dramatic intonation could have been.
“I told you——”
“Die Wahrheit, Frau Menzel! Um wie viel Uhr ist er aufgestanden?”
The psychological effect of this repetition of the question in German was instantaneous. The woman’s hands went to her face, and a stifled cry, like a trapped animal’s, escaped her.
“I don’t—know,” she groaned. “I called him at half past eight, but he didn’t answer, and I tried the door. . . . It wasn’t locked and—Du lieber Gott!—he was gone.”
“When did you next see him?” asked Vance quietly.
“At nine. I went up-stairs again to tell him breakfast was ready. He was in the study—at his desk—working like mad, and all excited. He told me to go away.”
“Did he come down to breakfast?”