“Oh God, oh God, have mercy on me,” he moaned, covering his craven face with trembling fingers. It has always disgusted me to see how readily this type of mangy cur turns his thoughts to the Deity when some specially infamous act has been followed by discovery.
“Do you think your God likes your kind of work? Get together what little of a man there is in you, and face the thing. Don’t slobber and whine like that. You make me sick with disgust.”
He seemed to make such effort as was possible, and after a few moments ventured to look at me.
“Will your Majesty graciously hear me? I am really innocent. I am indeed.”
“Prove it. Tell me all you’ve done since last night.”
“I can give your Majesty valuable information.”
“Informer now as well as spy, eh? Answer my question.”
Whether he thought he could read some hope in these words I don’t know, but he began to show less abject terror.
“I know the secrets of all the people here—M. Boreski and Mademoiselle Helga. Will your Majesty spare my life if I tell you?”
“Do you think I would make a compact with a thing like you?” I cried in disgust. “You can tell me nothing I do not already know, except how you brought Vastic and the other on my track. Tell me that?”