Carl Pérousse opened a small memorandum book, and carefully wrote the name down within it.
“Whatever David Jost has said, David Jost alone is answerable for!” he then said calmly—“A Jew may be called a liar with impunity, and whatever a Jew has asserted can be flatly denied. Remember, he is in our pay!”
“I doubt if he will consent to be made the scapegoat in this affair,” said Lutera; “Unless we can make it exceptionally to his advantage;—he has the press at his command.”
“Give him a title!” returned Pérousse contemptuously; “These Jew press-men love nothing better!”
The Marquis smiled somewhat sardonically.
“Jost, with a patent of nobility would cut rather an extraordinary figure!” he said; “Still he would probably make good use of it,—especially if he were to start a newspaper in London! They would accept him as a great man there!”
Pérousse gave a careless nod; his thoughts were otherwise occupied.
“This Pasquin Leroy has gone to Moscow?”
“According to his own words, he was leaving this morning.”
“I daresay that statement is a blind. I should not at all wonder if he is still in the city. I will get an exact description of him from Jost, and set Bernhoff on his track.”