"Come this way," he said, leading him toward the card-room. "Come in here! I want to speak to you."
He locked the door—a most unheard-of and irregular proceeding. Graillot felt the coming of the storm.
"Well!" he exclaimed grimly. "Trouble already, eh? I see it in your face, young man. Out with it!"
John—who had won a hard match at rackets a few days before against a more experienced opponent simply because of his perfect condition—was breathing hard. There was a dull patch of color in his cheek, drops of sweat stood upon his forehead. He controlled his voice with difficulty. Its tone was sharp and unfamiliar.
"I was sitting in the smoking room there, a few moments ago," he began, jerking his head toward the door. "There were some men talking—decent fellows, not dirty scandalmongers. They spoke of Louise Maurel."
Graillot nodded gravely. He knew very well what was coming.
"Well?"
"They spoke, also, of the Prince of Seyre."
"Well?"
John felt his throat suddenly dry. The words he would have spoken choked him. He banged his fist upon the table by the side of which they were standing.