“The peace of the grave, man,” retorted Chauvelin roughly; “if you will only speak. Where is Capet?”
“I cannot tell you; the way is long, the road—intricate.”
“Bah!”
“I’ll lead you to him, if you will give me rest.”
“We don’t want you to lead us anywhere,” growled Heron with a smothered curse; “tell us where Capet is; we’ll find him right enough.”
“I cannot explain; the way is intricate; the place off the beaten track, unknown except to me and my friends.”
Once more that shadow, which was so like the passing of the hand of Death, overspread the prisoner’s face; his head rolled back against the chair.
“He’ll die before he can speak,” muttered Chauvelin under his breath. “You usually are well provided with brandy, citizen Heron.”
The latter no longer demurred. He saw the danger as clearly as did his colleague. It had been hell’s own luck if the prisoner were to die now when he seemed ready to give in. He produced a flask from the pocket of his coat, and this he held to Blakeney’s lips.
“Beastly stuff,” murmured the latter feebly. “I think I’d sooner faint—than drink.”