“Read it!” echoed Florent.
The mist seemed to be lifting, blowing in long trails, rapidly, to extinction. The Prince’s gentleman hung his lantern on the fence.
“You can read it here and now,” he said.
Florent glanced up from the still folded paper.
“You are English?”
“Yes, I am English,” answered Bromley.
Florent gazed at him keenly.
“You know something of the Prince’s affairs,—do you know why he wishes to make a confidant of me? Why I am to read this?”
Their voices were low and guarded; between them hurried the long veils of fog, blurring the street-lamp and the light of the lantern, in which their figures loomed indistinctly.
“You were aware what M. de Pomponne’s message contained?”