Then he slipped his hand within the old man's jacket. The inner pockets were stuffed full of papers, which Jean carefully withdrew. Some were tied together with pink tape, long since faded to a dull grey. He made one packet of them all and handed it to Lory.
“It was for those that they burnt the château,” he said; “but we have outwitted them.”
De Vasselot turned the clumsy parcel in his hand.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It is the papers of Vasselot and Perucca—your title-deeds.”
Lory laid the papers on the bank beside him.
“In your pocket,” corrected Jean, gruffly. “That is the place for them.”
And while Lory was securing the packet inside his tunic, the unusually silent man spoke again.
“It is Fate who has handed them to you,” he said.
“Then you think that Fate has time to think of the affairs of the Vasselots?”