No, the old lieutenant had not the slightest suspicion. He had spoken on the impulse of the moment, merely to give vent to his displeasure. He was not even keen enough to remark the rapid glance interchanged between the marquis and the duke.
Martial noticed this look, however, and with a politeness too studied not to be ridicule, he addressed the lieutenant:
“Yes, we must institute an investigation; that suggestion is as shrewd as it is opportune,” he remarked.
The old officer turned away with a muttered oath.
“That coxcomb is poking fun at me,” he thought; “and he and his father and that prig deserve—but what is one to do?”
In spite of his bold remark, Martial felt that he must not incur the slightest risk.
To whom must the charge of this investigation be intrusted? To the duke and to the marquis, of course, since they were the only persons who would know just how much to conceal, and just how much to disclose.
They began their task immediately, with an empressement which could not fail to silence all doubts, in case any existed in the minds of their subordinates.
But who could be suspicious? The success of the plot had been all the more certain from the fact that the baron’s escape seemed likely to injure the interests of the very parties who had favored it.
Martial thought he knew the details of the escape as exactly as the fugitives themselves. He had been the author, even if they had been the actors, of the drama of the preceding night.