"Tut, tut! You'll probably live a considerable time yet—just how long I can't, of course, say."
"No, sir." Sproot's eyes gazed blankly ahead. "No one understands the mysteries of life and death."
"You're somewhat philosophic, I see," drily commented Vance. Then: "When you phoned to Doctor Von Blon, was he in?"
"No, sir; but the night nurse told me he'd be back any minute, and that she'd send him over. He arrived in less than half an hour."
Vance nodded. "That will be all, thank you, Sproot.—And now please send me die gnädige Frau Köchin."
"Yes, sir." And the old butler shuffled from the room.
Vance's eyes followed him thoughtfully.
"An inveiglin' character," he murmured.
Greene snorted. "You don't have to live with him. He'd have said 'Yes, sir,' if you'd spoken to him in Walloon or Volapük. A sweet little playmate to have snooping round the house twenty-four hours a day!"
The cook, a portly, phlegmatic German woman of about forty-five, named Gertrude Mannheim, came in and seated herself on the edge of a chair near the entrance. Vance, after a moment's keen inspection of her, asked:
"Were you born in this country, Frau Mannheim?"
"I was born in Baden," she answered, in flat, rather guttural tones. "I came to America when I was twelve."
