“And that was?”
“One M. de Favras.”
“They are not at your heels?”
“No, they returned to Tours.”
“Disappointed?”
“Extremely so.”
He laughed, then grew suddenly sober and knitted his brows in thought, which I somehow dared not interrupt. After all, there was no cause for haste. He could not escape me.
“It looked like a trap,” he said, at last.
“It was a trap,” I assured him.
“And set for me?”