“And you, sir?” I asked, turning to Jarras, who sat 141 with his fat, round head buried in his shoulders, staring at the discolored blotter on his desk.
The old Corsican straightened as though stung: “Since when, monsieur, have subordinates assumed the right to question their superiors?”
I asked his pardon in a low voice, although I was no longer his subordinate. He had been a good and loyal chief to us all; the least I could do now was to show him respect in his bitter humiliation.
I think he felt our attitude and that it comforted him, but all he said was: “It is a heavy blow. The Emperor knows best.”
As we sat there in silence, a soldier came to summon Colonel Jarras, and he went away, leaning on his ivory-headed cane, head bowed over the string of medals on his breast.
When he had gone, Speed came over and shut the door, then shook hands with me.
“He’s gone to see Mornac; it will be our turn next. Look out for Mornac, or he’ll catch you tripping in your report. Did you find Buckhurst?”
“Look here,” I said, angrily, “how can Mornac catch me tripping? I’m not under his orders.”
“You are until you’re discharged. You see, they’ve taken it into their heads, since the crucifix robbery, to suspect everybody and anybody short of the Emperor. Mornac came smelling around here the day you left. He’s at the bottom of all this—a nice business to cast suspicion on our division because we’re foreigners. Gad, he looks like a pickpocket himself—he’s got the oblique trick of the eyes and the restless finger movement.”
“Perhaps he is,” I said.