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112 “My name is Aycon.”

“I know the name,” and he bowed slightly. “Well, I didn’t send to you at Avranches because I was otherwise occupied.”

“I am glad, sir, that you take it so lightly,” said I.

“And by the way, Mr. Aycon, before you question me, isn’t there a question I might ask you? How came you here to-night?” And, as he spoke, his smile vanished.

“I have nothing to say, beyond that I hoped to see your servant Jean.”

“For what purpose? Come, sir, for what purpose? I have a right to ask for what purpose.” And his tone rose in anger.

I was going to give him a straightforward answer. My hand was actually on the way to the spot where I felt the red box pressing against my side, when he rose from his seat and strode toward me; and a sudden passion surged in his voice.

“Answer me! answer me!” he cried. “No, I’m not asking about my wife; I don’t care a farthing for that empty little parrot. Answer me, sir, as you value your life! What do you know of Marie Delhasse?”

And he stood before me with uplifted hand, as though he meant to strike me. I did not move, and we looked keenly into one another’s eyes. He controlled himself by a great effort, but his hands trembled, as he continued:

“That old hag who came to-night and dared to show her filthy face here without her daughter—she told me of your talks and walks.