“But are you not afraid he may give his secret away?” questioned the Count.
He spoke with such vivacity that Gaydon could not restrain a glance of distrust, which, however, did not appear to disturb the equanimity of that impenetrable nobleman.
“No fear of that,” said the warder. “No promise would induce him to divulge his secret. Until the millions he demands are counted into his hand he will remain as mute as a stone.”
“I don’t happen to be carrying those millions about me,” remarked the Count quietly.
Gaydon again touched Roch on the shoulder and repeated:
“Thomas Roch, here are some foreigners who are anxious to acquire your invention.”
The madman started.
“My invention?” he cried. “My deflagrator?”
And his growing animation plainly indicated the imminence of the fit that Gaydon had been apprehensive about, and which questions of this character invariably brought on.
“How much will you give me for it—how much?” continued Roch. “How much—how much?”