"Suppose we come in here," suggested the other. "I'm tired holding this candle and you don't care particularly about lying on that bag of shavings."
With this he led the way through the arched passageway into another stone chamber very much like the first, only smaller, and lined in the same way with piled-up logs. In the middle of the floor was a rough table spread with food, and two rough chairs. On the table lay the diary.
"Sit down," continued the baron. "Later on you can eat, but first we'll have a talk. Coquenil, I've watched you for years, I know all about you, and—I'll say this, you're the most interesting man I ever met. You've given me trouble, but—that's all right, you played fair, and—I like you, I like you."
There was no doubt about the genuineness of this and M. Paul glanced wonderingly across the table.
"Thanks," he said simply.
"It's a pity you couldn't see things my way. I wanted to be your friend, I wanted to help you. Just think how many times I've gone out of my way to give you chances, fine business chances."
"I know."
"And that night on the Champs Elysées! Didn't I warn you? Didn't I almost plead with you to drop this case? And you wouldn't listen?"
"That's true."
"Now see where you are! See what you've forced me to do. It's a pity; it cuts me up, Coquenil." He spoke with real sadness.