“But you have not told me his real name yet,” said the Chevalier, as he slowly smoked his cigar, and spoke with the half-listlessness of a careless inquirer.
“I know that, sir,” said Billy, cautiously; “I don't see any need of it.”
“Nor your own, either,” remarked the other.
“Nor even that, sir,” responded Billy, calmly.
“It comes to this, then, my good friend,” rejoined Stubber, “that, having got yourself into trouble, and having discovered, by the aid of a countryman, that a little frankness would serve you greatly, you prefer to preserve a mystery that I could easily penetrate if I cared for it, to speaking openly and freely, as a man might with one of his own.”
“We have no mysteries, sir. We have family secrets that don't regard any one but ourselves. My young ward, or pupil, whichever I ought to call him, has, maybe, his own reasons for leading a life of unobtrusive obscurity, and what one may term an umbrageous existence. It's enough for me to know that, to respect it.”
“Come, come, all this is very well if you were at liberty, or if you stood on the soil of your own country; but remember where you are now, and what accusations are hanging over you. I have here beside me very grave charges indeed,—constant and familiar intercourse with leaders of the Carbonari—”
“We don't know one of them,” broke in Billy.
“Correspondence with others beyond the frontier,” continued the Chevalier.
“Nor that either,” interrupted Billy.