So, reeling and howling, and drifting backwards a black smoke of menace towards the stranger whose name, for any or no particular reason, seemed to be written in the dark book of its café-chantant Hippolyté, the procession passed on its way. The stragglers, who had been drawn by curiosity to the neighbourhood of the interview, dispersed, and the two men were left alone.
Vergniaud, with a shrug of his shoulders, looked at Ned, who seemed to be muttering to himself.
“A very précieuse-ridicule,” murmured the Frenchman. “I would not have you take the little pretty rogue seriously.”
Ned seized him by the wrist.
“Did you hear her?” he exclaimed in a concentrated agony of voice.
Vergniaud nodded his head.
“About monsieur le duc’s protégée?” he answered uneasily.
“How did she know of her—of me?”
“Mon ami, cannot you tell?” was the compassionate, evasive reply.
“Yes,” cried Ned violently, “I can tell. He lied about the letter. The woman told him in it why she had wished to get rid of me, and he lied about it.”