“It was unfortunate,” said Guerchard; and there was a note of incredulity in his voice.
“My having to repair the car myself?” said the Duke.
“Yes, of course,” said Guerchard, hesitating a little over the assent.
The Duke dropped the end of his cigarette into a tray, and took out his case. He held it out towards Guerchard, and said, “A cigarette? or perhaps you prefer your caporal?”
“Yes, I do, but all the same I’ll have one,” said Guerchard, coming quickly across the room. And he took a cigarette from the case, and looked at it.
“All the same, all this is very curious,” he said in a new tone, a challenging, menacing, accusing tone.
“What?” said the Duke, looking at him curiously.
“Everything: your cigarettes ... the salvias ... the photograph that Bonavent found in Victoire’s prayer-book ... that man in motoring dress ... and finally, your break-down,” said Guerchard; and the accusation and the threat rang clearer.
The Duke rose from his chair quickly and said haughtily, in icy tones: “M. Guerchard, you’ve been drinking!”
He went to the chair on which he had set his overcoat and his hat, and picked them up. Guerchard sprang in front of him, barring his way, and cried in a shaky voice: “No; don’t go! You mustn’t go!”