“Doubtless,” snapped in Ned, “monsieur was born yesterday.”
The commissary, supporting his right elbow with his left hand, sank back in his chair, pinched his callow throat into a bag, and closed his eyes.
“The simple facts,” he said—as if reasoning with himself, as the one most needing the lesson of reason—“are that you have defied the authority of the plebiscite.”
“Good heavens!” cried Ned.
The officer coming upright again, his lids, in the act, seemed to open mechanically, like those of a doll.
“I must tell you plainly,” he said, “that, to my mind, your interference was questionable and suspicious.”
“Believe me, sir,” said Ned politely, “that, in quoting your own mind, you use an empty argument.”
“You state,” continued the commissary, “that this man is your servant. Who ever heard of a respectable person taking a Cagot for a servant!”
There rose murmured acclamations from the bystanders. This was the first really apposite thing uttered by the officer. He seemed greatly stimulated by the applause, and moved thereby to clinch a fine situation.
“I shall remand you,” he said quite briskly, “for inquiries to be made into the truth of your statements.”