A brief, unmirthful smile flickered for an instant over the visitor's face. "I was released, but not because I was dying. I should like to speak to you, if I may."
De Fresne had pulled himself together. "Of course. Let me take off your cloak. Have you supped?"
"Yes, thank you. I have a room at the inn." He who had been L'Oiseleur was unfastening the cloak. "I must apologize for coming so late, but I was anxious to find you at home."
De Fresne took the cloak from him. "It is not late. It is only this cloak that is wet, I trust? You do not look . . ." He touched his arm. "Are you really flesh and blood, La Rocheterie?" he asked almost timidly.
"Well . . .flesh," responded Aymar, with the same little smile. "The other ingredient is somewhat to seek yet, I believe."
"I'll get you some wine," murmured his lieutenant. "Meanwhile, pray sit down—here."
"No wine, thank you," said Aymar, obeying him. "I shall not detain you long."
"But you must let me give you a bed to-night! I'll tell my sister at once."
"Thank you, but I am staying at the inn," replied his visitor for the second time, in a tone which did not admit of the renewal of the invitation.
De Fresne came slowly and sat down opposite him on the other side of the fireless hearth and felt uncomfortable. Although La Rocheterie's extremely quiet manner was free from any trace of hostility, it conveyed somehow a feeling of immense distance, as though he really were the ghost he looked like. And why would he not drink with him?