The young man—he was in the blue pyjamas he had found laid out upon the bed when Violet de Coudron had shown us into the bedroom—looked quietly at the speaker for a moment or two, then answered with the utmost sang-froid—
“I’m not your servant, hang you! Don’t speak to me like that.”
“You may not be my servant, but I now control your movements,” Paulton retorted quickly. “Therefore you will please do what I order. I take it that you know that I brought you and Ashton over here.”
“Naturally.”
“Have you any idea why?”
“None.”
“Then I will tell you. Listen.”
He was standing beside the bed. The Baronne, near him, looked with interest at Faulkner and myself as we now stood together a yard or two away from them.
“For some months past,” Paulton said, watching me with an unpleasant expression, “you have been on intimate terms with the Thorolds.”
“Really,” I answered, shortly, “I can’t see what concern that is of yours. I have known the Thorolds intimately for a good many years. Perhaps you will tell me your reason for the extraordinary liberty you took last night in bringing us here. I consider it a gross impertinence.”