Quentin."
"I have made my declaration in the presence of two witnesses, far too
honourable to falsify, that I know nothing of the attack on the duke,"
Peyrot repeated with apparent satisfaction. "But of course it is
possible that by scouring Paris I might get on the scent of your packet.
Twenty pistoles, though. That is not much."
M. Etienne stood silent, drumming tattoos on the table, not pleased with
the turn of the matter, not seeing how to better it. Had we been sure of
our suspicions, we would have charged him, pistol or no pistol,
trusting that our quickness would prevent his shooting, or that the
powder would miss fire, or that the ball would fly wide, or that we
should be hit in no vital part; trusting, in short, that God was with us
and would in some fashion save us. But we could not be sure that the
packet was with Peyrot. What we had heard him lock in the chest might
have been these very pistols that he had afterward taken out again.
Three men had fled from M. de Mirabeau's alley; we had no means of
knowing whether this Peyrot were he who ran as we came up, he whom I had
encountered, or he who had engaged M. Etienne. And did we know, that
would not tell us which of the three had stabbed and plundered Huguet.
Peyrot might have the packet, or he might know who had it, or he might
be in honest ignorance of its existence.
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