“Would it be better to make use of what you know?” M. Costeclar joined his hands.
“You would not do that,” he said. “What good would it do you to ruin me?”
“None,” answered M. de Tregars: “you are right. But yourself?”
And, looking straight into M. Costeclar’s eyes,—“If you could be of service to me,” he inquired, “would you be willing?”
“Perhaps. That I might recover possession of the papers you have.”
M. de Tregars was thinking.
“After what has just taken place,” he said at last, “an explanation is necessary between us. I will be at your house in an hour. Wait for me.”
M. Costeclar had become more pliable than his own lavender kid gloves: in fact, alarmingly pliable.
“I am at your command, sir,” he replied to M. de Tregars.
And, bowing to the ground before Mlle. Gilberte, he left the parlor; and, a few moments after, the street-door was heard to close upon him.