“It is perhaps not so strange after all, Monsieur Dupont,” he remarked with a thoughtful air. “We must not forget that the poor fellow has but just recovered consciousness. He is hardly likely to be either lucid or rational.”
“Bah!” ejaculated Monsieur Dupont grimly. “He is as lucid as I am. But I am not through with him yet! He is not the first of his kind I have had upon my hook!” He leaned toward the bed. “Now, then, my little Apache, you will answer my questions! Do you understand? No more evasions! None at all! They will do you no good, and——”
Raymond's hand fell upon Monsieur Dupont's shoulder. Though he had not looked again until now, he was conscious that those eyes from the bed had never for an instant swerved from his face. Now he met them steadily. He addressed Monsieur Dupont, but he spoke to the man on the bed.
“Have you warned him, Monsieur Dupont,” he said soberly, “that anything he says will be used against him? And have you told him that he is not obliged to answer? He is weak yet and at a disadvantage. He would be quite justified in waiting until he was stronger, and entirely competent to weigh his own words.”
Monsieur Dupont was possessed of an inconsistency all his own.
“Tonnerre!” he snapped. “And what is the use of warning him when he will not answer at all?”
“You appear not quite to have given up hope!” observed Raymond dryly.
“H'm!” Monsieur Dupont scowled. “Very well, then”—he leaned once more over the bed, and addressed the man—“you understand? It is as Monsieur le Curé says. I warn you. You are not obliged to answer. Now then—your name, your age, your birthplace?”
Raymond shifted his position to the foot of the bed.
Damn those eyes! Move where he would, they never left his face. The man had paid no attention to Monsieur Dupont. Why, in God's name, why did the man keep on staring and gazing so fixedly at him—and why had the man refused to answer Dupont's questions—and why had not the man with his first words poured out his story eagerly!