de Valentin asked me, "that he is simply
what he professes to be--a valet, and not, for instance, a spy?"
"My dear sir," I protested, "we scarcely know the meaning of that word in
England. To say the least of it, such a suggestion would be wildly
improbable."
He sighed.
"In France," he said, "one looks for spies everywhere. I myself have
suffered painfully on more than one occasion from espionage. One grows
suspicious, and, in this instance, I have grounds for my suspicions."
"May I know what they are?" I asked.
"I was about to tell you," Mr. de Valentin answered. "I have with me in
my cabin certain papers, which are of great importance to me. I had
occasion to look them through last night, and although none were missing,
yet there was every indication of their having been tampered with. I
questioned my servant, who is a very faithful fellow, and I found that
the only person with whom he had made friends, and who had entered my
cabin, was your man, Peters I think you called him."
Mr. de Valentin was watching me closely, and the test was a severe one.
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