No one can tell with certainty how a great disaster will affect a man. Gertstein, chewing a cold cigar, and with hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, strode with rolling gait about the room while Labar told in carefully selected phrases the truth about his wife. The little man, whose interviews with the inspector hitherto had been marked by temperamental outbursts, was now as cold as ice. Labar had expected either a breakdown or a vast explosion of passion. This frigid acceptance of a great blow surprised him. He mentally contrasted the emotion that the financier had shown when the robbery had taken place.
“You tell me that Adèle has gone away with this lover of hers—this crook?” said Gertstein, as indifferently as though he was discussing the weather.
“I am afraid there is no doubt of it,” agreed Labar. He was wondering whether the indifference was real or assumed. For the life of him he could not come to a decision.
“And that she has forged my name and attempted to kill you.”