‘Of Paris?’
‘Yes, Monsieur, of Paris.’
‘You are not, then, the gentleman who has been honouring my poor house with his presence?’
‘Oh, yes!’ the Lieutenant struck in, grinning. ‘He is that gentleman, too.’
‘But I thought—I understood that that was M. de Barthe!’
‘I am M. de Barthe, also,’ I retorted impatiently. ‘What of that, Monsieur? It was my mother’s name. I took it when I came down here.’
‘To—er—to arrest me, may I ask?’
‘Yes,’ I said, doggedly; ‘to arrest you. What of that?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied slowly and with a steady look at me—a look I could not meet. ‘Except that, had I known this before, M. de Berault I should have thought longer before I surrendered to you.’
The Lieutenant laughed, and I felt my cheek burn; but I affected to see nothing, and turned to him again. ‘Now, Monsieur,’ I said, ‘are you satisfied?’