“At present we are but wasting our valuable time over so trifling a matter.... If you’ll excuse me, sir... I am so demmed fatigued—”
“Then you will be glad to have everything settled quickly, I am sure.”
“Exactly, sir.”
Heron was taking no part in the present conversation. He knew that his temper was not likely to remain within bounds, and though he had nothing but contempt for his colleague’s courtly manners, yet vaguely in his stupid, blundering way he grudgingly admitted that mayhap it was better to allow citizen Chauvelin to deal with the Englishman. There was always the danger that if his own violent temper got the better of him, he might even at this eleventh hour order this insolent prisoner to summary trial and the guillotine, and thus lose the final chance of the more important capture.
He was sprawling on a chair in his usual slouching manner with his big head sunk between his broad shoulders, his shifty, prominent eyes wandering restlessly from the face of his colleague to that of the other man.
But now he gave a grunt of impatience.
“We are wasting time, citizen Chauvelin,” he muttered. “I have still a great deal to see to if we are to start at dawn. Get the d—d letter written, and—”
The rest of the phrase was lost in an indistinct and surly murmur. Chauvelin, after a shrug of the shoulders, paid no further heed to him; he turned, bland and urbane, once more to the prisoner.
“I see with pleasure, Sir Percy,” he said, “that we thoroughly understand one another. Having had a few hours’ rest you will, I know, feel quite ready for the expedition. Will you kindly indicate to me the direction in which we will have to travel?”
“Northwards all the way.”