“So you have them on you, you sly devil, have you? Strip, to the skin, and let me see what’s there. If I play valet for you you’ll find little play in it, on my oath.”
“I’ll tell you all, monsieur,” gasped Dauban, faintly. “Let me but get my breath.”
“I want no more of your lies. Give me the papers.”
“They are there,” and Dauban pointed to a desk.
“Thank you, master liar, but first I’ll have those on you. Quick or——” and another threatening gesture finished the sentence.
Slowly and with a groan of anguish, Dauban took out some of the papers he had concealed in his clothes, and laid them on the table.
“The rest,” said Pascal, putting these out of the spy’s reach. “Strip and don’t try my temper farther, or I’ll not answer for myself.”
Trembling so that his aching teeth chattered, Dauban obeyed the command; and as each garment was drawn off Pascal examined it for any concealed documents, and a quick glance at what he found showed him the nature and value of his discovery. He had the proofs not only of de Proballe’s infamy but also of the Duke’s complicity in everything.
“Now open these places and, while I search, put on your clothes again. Quick!” he thundered.
Then Dauban formed a plan. Terror-stricken though he was, he had yet sense to reflect that he could never face his master with such a confession. He donned his clothes rapidly and going to the cupboard said—