He brought his mind to bear on other points.
"Why, after so much mystery, such precautions, does this Judas of an abbé disclose the contents of that damnable package before its delivery? Why this halt in the outskirts of Rouen when a quick run, a quick handing over of the package is so essential?... With such a powerful machine, why this stop in a journey of some 225 kilometres?"
Fandor felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
"Suppose this abbé is playing a trick on me?... If yesterday, to-day, ... no matter when ... I have betrayed myself? If these people have discovered my identity? If, knowing that I am not Vinson, but Fandor, they have made me put on uniform, placed in the car with me a compromising portion of a gun, and are going to hand me over to the military authorities, either at Rouen, or elsewhere?"
The abbé, comfortably ensconced in the corner, was slumbering again.
Fandor cast stealthy glances at his companion, considering him carefully.
Now he came to examine him, surely this priest's face had a queer look?... The eyebrows were too regular ... painted?... How delicate his skin?... Not the slightest trace of a beard?... A shoe—the traditional silver-buckled shoe of the priest—was visible below the cassock.... That was all right ... but, how slender his ankle?...
Fandor pulled himself up. What would he imagine next? True, he was wise to suspect everything, everybody—test them, try them—in this terrible position he had got himself into, nevertheless, he must keep a clear head.
The car was passing through a village. The abbé opened his eyes.
"Monsieur l'Abbé," declared Fandor, "I am frozen to death. Would you object to our stopping a minute so that I might swallow a glass of rum?"