The priest held up his finger, smiling. “Yes, I got it nearly all away. And now you must——”
“A moment, Pierre! no, I insist on asking this! That woman at Mirabel—the concierge; I hope she has not been compromised in any way? I should be most deeply concerned if it were so.”
“Ah, the concierge,” repeated M. Chassin, and he paused. “—No, as far as I know, she has not fallen under suspicion at all. But I had to leave extremely hurriedly, so that I should be very glad if I—if you, rather, could make enquiries on the point.”
“I shall do so,” said his foster-brother. “Think of what I owe her—the boy’s safety, perhaps his life. . . . Why are you looking at me like that, Pierre?”
The priest pulled himself together. “You have asked enough questions for to-night, Gaston. Just answer me one in return.—Since we parted, has not M. de Brencourt . . . guessed your secret?”
The Marquis flushed, and his mouth tightened. “I think he guessed it long ago.”
“But he knows it now, beyond guessing—you know that he knows?”
A pause. “Yes,” said the Duc de Trélan at last, frowning and reluctant. “I know . . . that he knows.”
He turned his head away on the pillow.
“Thank you,” responded M. Chassin rather grimly. And then, he added, in a tone astonishingly light-hearted, “I daresay it is as well.”