“How?” John demanded, stopping to stare at him.
“I fancy it is in a way to be done.”
“Ned, what the devil have you been about?”
“It is not my doing. I may even be mistaken. That must be ascertained, of course.”
“I do not know what you would be at! Here you have in your possession a document that must be instantly taken to Lord Bathurst with the full story of its discovery! You cannot be thinking of doing otherwise! It will be hushed up, I make no doubt. No one will be anxious to have it known how easily such a document went astray!”
Carlyon was silent, frowning down at the memorandum which he had picked up and folded again. After a moment he raised his eyes and directed one of his level glances at his brother. “I think we should do better to give these papers to Francis Cheviot,” he said.
His words struck both his auditors dumb. They regarded him in stupefaction. He had spoken in a reflective tone, as though debating within himself, and did not appear to notice the effect his words produced.
“You think we should—Ned, are you indeed mad?” John gasped.
“No. I have not had the opportunity to tell you what I discovered—or, rather, verified—in London. Louis de Castres was stabbed.”
Real perturbation was in John’s face. “Ned, old fellow, you cannot be yourself! What has that to say to anything? We knew it!”