“Because I think you’re a sick man, that you ought to have care.”
The old man laughed and drew himself even more erect.
“Sick? I was never better in my life, my dear sir, never fitter, never stronger!”
And he looked all that he said. His height, the breadth of his shoulders, the healthy glow of his cheeks, all spoke of physical fitness.
A long pause, and then:
“Where is Gregory Penne?” asked Michael, emphasizing every word.
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
The old man’s eyes met his without wavering.
“We were talking about my great-uncle. You know him, of course?” he asked.
“I knew him the first time I saw his picture, and I thought I had betrayed my knowledge, but apparently I did not. Your great-uncle”—Michael spoke deliberately—“was Sanson, otherwise Longval, hereditary executioner of France!”