His astonishment was genuine; Maurice saw that it was, and he reflected. Madame nor Fitzgerald had been dishonest with him.
“No. Some one has forestalled me.”
“Are you lying to me?” menacingly.
“And if I were?” coolly.
Beauvais measured his antagonist, his eyes hard and contemptuous.
“I repeat,” said Maurice, “the situation is exceedingly droll. I am not afraid of you, not a bit. I am not a man to be intimidated. You might have inferred as much by my willingness to accompany you here. I am alone with you.”
“It is true that you are alone with me,” in a voice, which, though it did not alarm Maurice, caused him to rest less comfortably in his chair. “In the first place, you know too much.”
“The knowledge was not of my own seeking. You will agree with me in that.” He took a swallow of the cognac. “However, since I am in the affair—”
“Well?”
“I'll see it to its end.”