"The pocket-book has never left my possession since it quitted yours," was my reply.
"Just so," broke in Boivin, now slowly recovering from his terror. "Of its contents I know nothing; nor have I sought to know any thing."
Robespierre looked at me, as if to corroborate this statement, and I nodded my head in acquiescence.
"Who is your father, boy?"
"I have none—he was guillotined."
"His name?"
"Tiernay."
"Ah, I remember; he was called L'Irlandais."
"The same."
"A famous Royalist was that same Tiernay, and, doubtless, contrived to leave a heritage of his opinions to his son."