"His son."
"He has no son."
"But he has, monsieur. The Comte de—"
"He is dead," said Yeux-gris.
"Why, we knew naught—" I was beginning, when Gervais broke in:
"You say the fellow's honest, when he tells such tales as this! He saw the Comte de Mar—!"
"I thought it must be he," I protested. "A young man who sat by Monsieur's side, elegant and proud-looking, with an aquiline face—"
"That is Lucas, that is his secretary," declared Yeux-gris, as who should say, "That is his scullion."
Gervais looked at him oddly a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and demanded of me:
"What next?"