Mascarin persisted in representing himself as the agent of others, but still the Count made no allusion to the persons in the background.
After a few moments the Count rose and limped up and down, as though he hoped by this means to collect his ideas, or perhaps in order to prevent his visitor from scanning his face too closely.
“Have you done?” asked he, all at once.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Have you thought what an impartial judge would say?”
“I think I have.”
“He would say,” broke in the Count, “that no sane man would have written such things down, for there are certain secrets which we do not whisper even to ourselves, and it is hardly likely that any man would make such compromising entries in a diary which might be lost or stolen, and which would certainly be read by his heir. Do you think that a man of high position would record his perjury, which is a crime that would send him to penal servitude?”
Mascarin gazed upon the Count with an air of pity.
“You are not going the right way, my lord, to get out of your trouble. No lawyer would adopt your theory. If the remaining volumes of M. de Clinchain’s diaries were produced in court, I imagine that other equally startling entries would be found in them.”
The Count now appeared to have arrived at some decision, and to continue the conversation simply for the purpose of gaining time.