“You like to eat, don’t you?” he asked, but in a low tone and in a voice that was different from the heavy growl that he had used on our way to the inn.
I leaned towards him across the table. He shot an inquiring glance around the room. Then he put his forefinger straight over his lips. It was a signal that I must be on my guard. With the same motion he let the scarf fall from his chin.
I nearly tumbled from the chair. Of all the surprises of my life this was the greatest. For the man whose prisoner I was, who had sold me to De Marsac for a handful of gold, who had betrayed me as though I were the meanest dog, was the man whom I for the past days had considered my closest friend—the scrivener!
I opened my mouth and gasped.
“You!” was all I could say.
“Pist!” he cautioned.
“I thought you were dead!” I went on.
“Dead?” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Not much.”
“Why, I saw you lying there under the tree,” I argued. “I touched you and you didn’t stir.”
“No, you didn’t,” he contradicted, “not me.”