The monk appeared to hesitate and glancing round lowered his tone.
“Do you know aught of this business of the so-called Gerard de Cobalt?”
“Not so loud, father. I know of his arrest and am even now engaged in the task of procuring his release.” It was a clever lie and seemed to impose on the monk.
“Good,” he said. “Lead me where I can write. Life and death depend on your good faith.”
“Follow me,” said Dauban, and led the way to de Proballe’s apartments. On the way they chanced to meet Lucette, who looked at the pair with curious eyes. Wondering what Dauban could be doing in such company, she followed at a distance and resolved to watch.
“Are we alone here?” asked Pascal.
“Quite. You need have no fear on that score.”
“Those doors—are they locked? If not, lock them and bring the keys here.”
All unsuspecting and wishing to win his companion’s confidence, Dauban did so and laid the keys on the table before him. As if still doubting, Pascal glanced round the room for himself, taking advantage of the minute to loose his habit stealthily.
“Paper, monsieur,” he said, and while Dauban’s back was toward him he slipped off his habit and laughed.