“Well, well!” prodded Monsieur Dupont. “Did you not hear—eh? Your name?”
The man's eyes followed Raymond.
“Where am I?” he asked faintly.
It was too querulous, that tone, too genuinely weak and peevish to smack of trickery—and suddenly upon Raymond there came again that nervous impulse to laugh out aloud. So that was the secret of it, was it? There was a sort of sardonic humour then in the situation! The suggestion, the belief he had planned to convey to shield himself—that the man was still irrational—was, in fact, the truth! But how long would that condition last? He must put an end to this—get this cursed Dupont away!
“Where am I?” muttered the man again.
“Tiens!” clucked Monsieur Dupont. “You see, Monsieur le Curé! You see? Yes, you see. He plays the game well—with finesse, eh?” He turned to the man. “Where are you, eh? Well, you are better off where you are now than where you will be in a few days! I promise you that! Now, again—your name?”
The man shook his head.
“Monsieur Dupont,” said Raymond, a little severely. “You will arrive at nothing like this. The man is not himself. To-morrow he will be stronger.”
“Bah! Nonsense! Stronger!” jerked out Monsieur Dupont derisively. “Our fox is quite strong enough! Monsieur le Curé, you are not a police officer—do not let your pity deceive you. And permit me to continue!” He slipped his hand into his pocket, and adroitly flashed a visiting card suddenly before the man's eyes. “Well, since you cannot recall your name, this will perhaps be of assistance! You see, Monsieur Henri Mentone, that you get yourself nowhere by refusing to answer!” Once more the man shook his head.
“So!” Monsieur Dupont complacently returned the card to his pocket. “Now we will continue. You see now where you stand. Your age?”