Shortly after noon on the following day Avon sent for his page. Léon came promptly, and knelt to kiss the Duke's hand. Walker had obeyed his master's commands implicitly, and in place of the shabby, grimy child of the evening before was a scrupulously neat boy, whose red curls had been swept severely back from his brow, and whose slim person was clad in plain black raiment, with a starched muslin cravat about his neck.
Avon surveyed him for a moment.
"Yes. You may rise, Léon. I am going to ask you some questions. I desire you will answer them truthfully. You understand?"
Léon put his hands behind him.
"Yes, Monseigneur."
"You may first tell me how you come to know my language."
Léon shot him a surprised glance.
"Monseigneur?”
"Pray do not be guileless. I dislike fools."
"Yes, Monseigneur. I was only surprised that you knew. It was at the inn, you see."
"I do not think I am obtuse,” said Avon coldly, "but I see naught."
"Pardon, Monseigneur. Jean keeps an inn, and very often English travellers come. Not—not noble English, of course."
"I see. Now you may relate your history. Begin with your name."
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