"C'est fini—l'affaire Poynton!" he remarked. "You can get ready as soon as you like, Guy. I am going to take you into Paris to your sister!"
Guy looked up eagerly.
"My pardon?" he asked.
The Vicomte made a wry face.
"Heavens!" he exclaimed, "I forgot that there were still explanations to make. Fill your abominable pipe, mon ami, and think that to-morrow or the next day you may be in your beloved England. Think how well we have guarded you here when a dozen men were loose in Paris who would have killed you on sight. Remember that in the underground history of England you will be known always as the man who saved his country. I shouldn't wonder in the least if you weren't decorated when you get home. Think of all these things—hard!"
"All right!" Guy answered. "Go ahead!"
"You never killed any one. The duel was a fake. You were—not exactly sober. That was entirely our fault, and we had to invent some plan to induce you to come into hiding peacefully. Voilà tout! It is forgiven?"
Guy laughed a great laugh of relief.
"Rather!" he exclaimed. "What an ass I must have seemed, asking that old Johnny for a pardon."
The Vicomte smiled.