Larry raised his eyebrows and struggled with well-manicured fingers to affix a cigarette in a long amber holder. “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong shop, Mr. Labar. I know the old boy by sight but I’ve scarcely spoken to him. True, I believe I was introduced to Mrs. Gertstein once⁠—I think it was at Ascot⁠—but that’s the limit of my knowledge of the family.”

“I’m looking up everyone who might by some remote chance throw some light on the affair,” explained Labar.

“Quite.” Hughes was listlessly polite.

“You are not acquainted with anyone associated with the Gertsteins? A Miss Noelson, for instance?”

However a man may use himself to mask his emotions, there is usually some point, as experienced poker players know, at which he betrays himself. Not infrequently, though his face may be immobile, some nervous twitch of the hands, some apparently small mannerism, will reveal itself to the one competent to read.