"Just so. I have heard and read of
the name, several times within these two months. The name of the
unfortunate English gentleman who was killed on the Simplon. When you
got that scar upon your cheek and neck."
"--From my own knife," said Obenreizer, touching what must have been an
ugly gash at the time of its infliction.
"From your own knife," assented the notary, "and in trying to save him.
Good, good, good. That was very good. Vendale. Yes. I have several
times, lately, thought it droll that I should once have had a client of
that name."
"But the world, sir," returned Obenreizer, "is _so_ small!" Nevertheless
he made a mental note that the notary had once had a client of that name.
"As I was saying, sir, the death of that dear travelling comrade begins
my troubles. What follows? I save myself. I go down to Milan. I am
received with coldness by Defresnier and Company. Shortly afterwards, I
am discharged by Defresnier and Company. Why? They give no reason why.
I ask, do they assail my honour? No answer. I ask, what is the
imputation against me? No answer. I ask, where are their proofs against
me? No answer. I ask, what am I to think? The reply is, 'M. Obenreizer
is free to think what he will. What M. Obenreizer thinks, is of no
importance to Defresnier and Company.' And that is all."
"Perfectly. That is all," asserted the notary, taking a large pinch of
snuff.
"But is that enough, sir?"
"That is not enough," said Maitre Voigt.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165