"They will be at your service, my choleric friend," replied the other suavely, "in exchange for your silence."
Adam Lambert drew a chair close to his whilom enemy, sat down opposite to him, with elbows resting on his knee, his clenched fists supporting his chin, and his eyes—anxious, eager, glowing, fixed resolutely on de Chavasse.
"I'll hold my tongue, never fear," he said curtly. "Show me the proofs."
Sir Marmaduke gave a pleasant little laugh.
"Not so fast, my friend," he said, "I do not carry such important papers about in my breeches' pocket."
And he rose from his chair, picked up the perruque and false mustache which the other man had dropped upon the floor, and adjusting these on his head and face he once more presented the appearance of the exiled Orléans prince.
"But thou'lt show them to me to-night," insisted the smith roughly.
"How can I, mine impatient friend?" quoth de Chavasse lightly, "the hour is late already."
"Nay! what matter the lateness of the hour? I am oft abroad at night, early and late, and thou, methinks, hast oft had the midnight hour for company. When and where wilt meet me?" added Lambert peremptorily, "I must see those proofs to-night, before many hours are over, lest the blood in my veins burn my body to ashes with impatience. When wilt meet me? Eleven? . . . Midnight? . . . or the small hours of the morn?"
He spoke quickly, jerking out his words through closed teeth, his eyes burning with inward fever, his fists closing and unclosing with rapid febrile movements of the fingers.