“I mean that an hour ago that bag contained the diamonds from the crucifix of Louis XI! I mean that I handed them over to you on my arrival at this bureau!”
“Doubtless you can prove what you say,” he observed, and his silver penknife snapped shut like the click of a trap, and he lay back in his padded chair and slipped the knife into his pocket.
I looked at Speed; his sandy hair fairly bristled, but his face was drawn and tense. I looked at Mornac; his heavy, black eyes met mine steadily.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that it was high time we abolished the Foreign Division, Imperial Military Police.”
“I refuse to be discharged!” I said, hoarsely. “It is your word against mine; I demand an investigation!”
“Certainly,” he replied, almost wearily, and touched a bell. “Bring that witness,” he added to the soldier who appeared in answer to the silvery summons.
“I mean an official inquiry,” I said—“a court-martial. It is my right where my honor is questioned.”
“It is my right, when you question my honor, to throw you into Mont Valérien, neck and heels,” he said, showing his teeth under his silky, black mustache.
Almost stunned by his change of tone, I stood like 148 a stone. Somebody entered the room behind me, passed me; there was an odor of violets in the air, a faint rustle of silk, and I saw Mornac rise and bow to his guest and conduct her to a chair.
His guest was the young Countess de Vassart.