His face did not alter. "You believe me a spy?"
"I have reason, monsieur."
Still he regarded me. "You might be right, but you are not. Monsieur, I am a broken man. I want nothing but my cousin. If there is intrigue around me I do not know it. I am telling you the truth."
I fought hard against the man's fascination, his splendid, ruined pomp. "You must have a code," I burst out. "There must be something you hold dear. Will you swear to me by the name of the woman that you have not had secret dealings with the Hurons?"
"I swear."
"But the profile that the Huron carried!"
"Those pictures I scattered broadcast. You will find them among the Algonquins, and the Ottawas of the upper river. My cousin has a distinctive profile. I offered rewards for news of any one—man or woman—who looked like the face that I had drawn."
I put out my hand. "I hope that I have wronged you, monsieur."
He bowed and touched my fingers. His own were icy, yet he shivered at the chill of mine. "Pemaou would not dare harm the woman. Monsieur de Montlivet, you know Indians. Surely Pemaou would not dare?"
I gripped my knife. "No man knows Indians! Where did you see Pemaou first?"