"Rumour is generally a false jade," I said coolly.
"Ten o'clock, then, at the new church in the Rue St. Honoré," and with that he retired, evidently annoyed at having been kept out of the room.
"That lessens the value of your information," said I, turning to my prisoner.
"Considerably," he replied cheerfully. "I judged monsieur wrongly. It is plain that his wits are as keen as his sword."
Ignoring the doubtful compliment, and taking up the note afresh, I observed that I should soon be able to tell who wrote it.
"It is possible," he agreed, "quite possible."
He had regained his composure, and, indeed, seemed rather pleased than otherwise at the turn events were taking. Still he did not quite know what to make of me, and now and then a shadow of anxiety flitted across his face.
As we sat staring at each other it dawned upon me that I had a new problem to solve. What was to be done with this unwelcome visitor? I had made up my mind to meet D'Arçy, and the sound of a neighbouring clock striking nine warned me there was short time left for decision.
"Suppose I let you go?" I asked, half amused at the comical situation.
"That would be agreeable to me."