He spoke between the whiffs of a cigarette, which he held daintily between his fingers.
“Most satisfactory. His death is believed to have been due to a fall from the carriage. But the identification? You have not told me,” asked Graham anxiously.
“He was identified by the papers upon him; therefore now the verdict has been given, you will wait, say, a week, so as not to appear in too great a hurry, then proceed to act as before.”
The other nodded, and removed his eyeglasses. His face preserved its keen craftiness.
“Nothing will transpire later? I mean nothing to our detriment.”
“Nothing can. It is absolutely impossible for the truth to be known unless you or I divulge it ourselves, and I think that is not probable,” he replied, with a mysterious smile.
“Scarcely. It would be an ugly matter for both of us.”
The Frenchman affected not to hear the reply. He twirled his carefully-waxed moustaches, and took a long, steady glance at his well-dressed figure in the dingy mirror over the mantelshelf.
“Well, Graham,” he said, “you know how to carry the business through. Holt and myself are at your disposal any time you require us, but don’t delay a day longer than necessary, for I tell you candidly we must have the money.”
“I assure you, my dear Bérard, I shall get the matter completed as soon as possible, for despatch will be the best course for all parties concerned, eh? Besides, as a matter of fact—”