“Everything,” said Guerchard, with the air of a man who is winning. “You must give me back the pictures, tapestry, Renaissance cabinets, the coronet, and all the information about the death of the Duke of Charmerace. Did you kill him?”
“If ever I commit suicide, you’ll know all about it, my good Guerchard. You’ll be there. You may even join me,” said Lupin grimly; he resumed his pacing up and down the room.
“Done for, yes; I shall be done for,” he said presently. “The fact is, you want my skin.”
“Yes, I want your skin,” said Guerchard, in a low, savage, vindictive tone.
“My skin,” said Lupin thoughtfully.
“Are you going to do it? Think of that girl,” said Guerchard, in a fresh access of uneasy anxiety.
Lupin laughed: “I can give you a glass of port,” he said, “but I’m afraid that’s all I can do for you.”
“I’ll throw Victoire in,” said Guerchard.
“What?” cried Lupin. “You’ve arrested Victoire?” There was a ring of utter dismay, almost despair, in his tone.
“Yes; and I’ll throw her in. She shall go scot-free. I won’t bother with her,” said Guerchard eagerly.