Lafetre thrust one hand into the pocket of his coat and drew forth two letters, which he gave into Nick’s hands; and to the detective’s surprise he saw that one of them was addressed to himself, and the other to Maxwell Kane.
The latter he returned into the Frenchman’s hands; then, holding the other before his eyes, he said:
“This one is for me, monsieur.”
“Ah! Then you are the Nicholas Carter—no?—who is Mademoiselle Harlan’s affianced. Is it not so? No? She did not tell me so, but I gathered that much from what she has told me. Mademoiselle is beautiful, monsieur.”
“Is she well? Is she safe? Has she been injured in any way? Is she suffering?” asked the detective rapidly.
“Mademoiselle is well, though greatly troubled,” replied Lafetre gravely. “She is also safe, since I, Antoine, am here to lay down my life in her defense at any moment. She has not been injured, save in her pride, and she does not suffer only because of the separation from her friends.”
“Thank you, Lafetre. She indeed found a friend when she discovered you. Now, where is she at the present moment?”
“She is in the great tower, monsieur.”
“And can you take me there?”
“Not now, but later? Yes. I was there but now. It was then that she gave me the letters to send. I told her that I did not know how soon they might be despatched. Ah! monsieur, I little thought—I, Antoine—that I should have the felicity of delivering one of the letters by hand, and so soon, and to the greatest of all fencers in the world.”