"Well, go on," I replied, as he kept his eyes on me, and waited as if for an answer, "Tell me the other things you wish me to promise."
"You must also promise me that whatever advantage can be gained by what I shall tell you shall be shared by me. Look you, I have the marriage contract—that is, I know where it is. It is all in order. It has the signatures of Charles Stuart, of—of—well, the woman who was called Lucy Walters, and that of the priest whose name you mentioned. I know where it is, and besides me there is no other who knows it. You must not ask how I obtained it. But I know. I know where I put it. It is in a safe place. But if I tell you, you must be my friend. In the time to come I shall need a friend such as you, with a quick brain and a strong arm. You know French, you say?"
"Yes, I know it enough to speak, and to understand the speech of others."
"That is well. You will promise these two things?"
"Let us be clear," I made answer, for I knew that he had not been speaking idle words. I could see by the way his hands trembled, and by the eager gleam in his eyes, that he was deeply in earnest. "You wish me to promise not to learn the secret of your life, to seek to know nothing more about you than I know now?"
"Yes, yes. Nothing, nothing. That is vital."
"And, second, you wish me to promise that whatever advantage may be gained by what I shall find out shall be shared by you?"
"Yes, you state it clearly."
"The first I might promise, but not the second."
"Why?"