"What do you want of him?" I asked in turn.
"Never you mind. I want him."
"But Mayenne said he should not be touched," I cried. "The Duke of Mayenne said himself he should not be touched."
"I know nothing about that," he returned, a trifle more civilly than he had spoken. "I have naught to do with the Duke of Mayenne. If he is friends with your master, M. de Mar may not stay behind bars very long. But I have the governor's warrant for his arrest."
"On what charge?"
"A trifle. Merely murder."
"Murder?"
"Yes, the murder of a lackey, one Pontou."
"But that is ridiculous!" I cried. "M. le Comte did not—"
I came to a halt, not knowing what to say. "Lucas—Paul de Lorraine killed him," was on the tip of my tongue, but I choked it down. To fling wild accusations against a great man's man were no wisdom. By accident I had given the officer the impression that we were friends of Mayenne. I should do ill to imperil the delusion. "M. le Comte—" I began again, and again stopped. I meant to say that monsieur had never left the inn last night; he could have had no hand in the crime. Then I bethought me that I had better not know the hour of the murder. "M. le Comte is a very grand gentleman; he would not murder a lackey," I got out at last.