“I shall be glad to answer every question Monsieur may please to ask,” I answered, overjoyed that he should begin so mildly. “I shall be only too happy to tell Monsieur everything I know.”
“That is well,” and his brow cleared a little. “You may perhaps yet save your neck. Now answer me. Where was it you last saw the Duc de Roquefort?”
“M. le Comte,” I answered simply, “I have never in my whole life seen the Duc de Roquefort.”
His brow contracted and he brought his hand down with a crash upon the arm of his chair.
“By God! M. de Marsan,” he cried, “you seem to set small value on that head of yours! You will be denying next that it was you who came to the rescue of that cursed, cowardly henchman of his, Brissac, just when I had him where he must have given up certain papers. You will be denying that it was you who spitted Bastien, who caused me to suffer this wound across the face,” and he pointed to his bandaged cheek with a terrible gesture that sent the blood back to my heart.
“I deny nothing, Monsieur,” I protested, “but I beg you to believe that I did not know it was you I was resisting or your enemies I was aiding.”
“M. le Comte,” broke in d’Aurilly, with an evil light in his eyes, “has not this farce gone far enough? Why keep this liar longer from the rope?”
“Why, indeed?” repeated M. le Comte, looking at me darkly. “Do you persist in your denials, M. de Marsan?”
And then of a sudden I remembered the message. With feverish fingers I sought to draw it from my bosom—it was not there! In a flash I understood—the assault in the dungeon, the tearing of my doublet, the rustling of a paper!
“It has been stolen!” I cried hoarsely, my throat on fire. “Some one has stolen it from me!”