The Frenchman opened his eyes widely at the man’s calm audacity.
“I did not take your hint in the least, I assure you,” he exclaimed, with quick indignation. “I left Orton for quite another reason.”
The sallow-faced man smiled, as though quite unconscious of his companion’s anger.
“Yes,” he said. “I know. You cannot deceive me.”
“You know?” cried the Frenchman, starting to his feet. “What do you know? Have you invited me up here to threaten me again?”
“I merely say that I know the reason why you received the letter calling you to Paris this morning,” replied the Under-Secretary in a cold, calm voice. “It was because you met and were recognised by a certain Englishman named Macbean, the secretary of that vulgar fellow we saw eating his supper half an hour ago.”
Dubard’s jaw fell. He saw that by some utterly unaccountable means his enemy was aware of the real reason which compelled him to fly from Leicestershire.
Was it possible that he could know the whole truth? No; it was impossible. Macbean dare not speak. Of that he felt quite assured.
“Ah?” continued the general, a grim smile crossing his thin, hard features as he narrowly watched his companion. “You see I am not quite as ignorant of the past as you believe, my dear Jules.”
“Nor am I!” cried the Frenchman, turning upon him savagely. “Last night you threatened me, remember!”