“It is no use, sir,” he said, “to try and frighten me. I risk nothing. Shot, do you say? Nonsense! You don’t shoot people in France for the least thing; and we are all four subjects of a neutral country. Tried? Sentenced? Imprisoned? Never! You forget that you have kept everything dark so far; and, when you hushed up the murder of Mustapha, of Fakhi and of Essarès, it was not done with the object of reviving the case for no valid reason. No, sir, I am quite easy. The internment-camp is the worst that can await me.”
“Then you refuse to answer?” said M. Masseron.
“Not a bit of it! I accept internment. But there are twenty different ways of treating a man in these camps, and I should like to earn your favor and, in so doing, make sure of reasonable comfort till the end of the war. But first of all, what do you know?”
“Pretty well everything.”
“That’s a pity: it decreases my value. Do you know about Essarès’ last night?”
“Yes, with the bargain of the four millions. What’s become of the money?”
Bournef made a furious gesture:
“Taken from us! Stolen! It was a trap!”
“Who took it?”
“One Grégoire.”