"Courtesy!" he repeated, settling himself with a shake. "That makes nothing. If I regarded my own inclinations, I'd let you go to the devil as quick as Popinot's assassins could send you there!"
"This is delightful!" Lanyard protested. "First you must see me home to save my life, and then you tell me your inclinations consign me to a premature grave. Is there an explanation, possibly?"
"On your person," said the Count, sententious.
"Eh?"
"You carry your reason with you, my friend—in the shape of the Omber loot."
"Assuming you are right—"
"You never went to the rue du Bac, monsieur, without those jewels: and I have had you under observation ever since."
"What conceivable interest," Lanyard pursued evenly, "do you fancy you've got in the said loot?"
"Enough, at least, to render me unwilling to kiss it adieu by leaving you to the mercies of Popinot. You don't imagine I'd ever hear of it again, when his Apaches had finished with you?"
"Ah!… So, after all, your so-called organization isn't founded on that reciprocal trust so essential to the prosperity of such—enterprises!"
"Amuse yourself as you will with your inferences, my friend," the Count returned, unruffled; "but don't forget my advice: pull wide of Popinot!"
"A vindictive soul, eh?"
"One may say that."
