The Marquis shrugged his shoulders with that light despair which is incomprehensible to any but men of Latin race.
“No, Marquis! there you are wrong,” corrected Dormer Colville, with a sudden gravity, “for we have in Captain Clubbe the very man we want—one of the hardest to find in this chattering world—a man who will not say too much. If we can only make him say what we want him to say he will not ruin all by saying more. It is so much easier to say a word too much than a word too little. And remember he speaks French as well as English, though, being British, he pretends that he cannot.”
Monsieur de Gemosac turned to peer at his companion in the darkness.
“You speak hopefully, my friend,” he said. “There is something in your voice—”
“Is there?” laughed Colville, who seemed elated. “There may well be. For that man has been saying things in that placid monotone which would have taken your breath away had you been able to understand them. A hundred times I rejoiced that you understood no English, for your impatience, Marquis, might have silenced him as some rare-voiced bird is silenced by a sudden movement. Yes, Marquis, there is a locket containing a portrait of Marie Antoinette. There are other things also. But there is one draw-back. The man himself is not anxious to come forward. There are reasons, it appears, here in Farlingford, why he should not seek his fortune elsewhere. To-morrow morning—”
Dormer Colville rose and yawned audibly. It almost appeared that he regretted having permitted himself a moment’s enthusiasm on a subject which scarcely affected his interests.
“To-morrow morning I will see to it.”