“Yes, infernally,” responded the victim, wincing.
“Very well, I will not do it again. Wherever it is the bullet will have to come out.”
“Naturally,” said the Marquis resignedly. “But at least tie my arm up for to-night—and tell me about the treasure.”
“Tell me first about this, Gaston. Was the man near—this looks to me as if it had been fired from a few yards off only? Did you see him?”
“N . . . no; he was in the shadow under the trees.”
“Whereabouts?”
His foster-brother hesitated. “Not far from the Moulin-aux-Fées.”
“Holy Virgin, what were you doing there?”
“Perhaps foolishly, taking a walk.” And then he went on quickly, “But are you not going to tie this thing up, or am I to spend the night like this?”
For his bared arm, streaked with blood and much swollen round the little bluish orifice, rested before him on the table, and the Abbé had retired into the bedroom.