The duke studied me from top to toe.  He twirled his mustache, and a slight smile appeared on his full lips.

“Yet I know you as George Sampson, I think, sir,” said he, but in an altered tone.  He spoke now as though to an equal—­to an enemy perhaps, but to an equal.

I was in some perplexity; but a moment later he relieved me.

“You need trouble yourself with no denials,” he said.  “Lafleur’s story of the gentleman at Avranches, with the description of him, struck me as strange; and for the rest—­there were two things.”

He seated himself on a stool.  I leaned against the wall.

“In the first place,” he continued, “I know my wife pretty well; in the second, a secret known to four maidservants—­ Really, sir, you were very confiding!”

“I was doing no wrong,” said I; though not, I confess, in a very convinced tone.

“Then why the masquerade?” he answered quickly, hitting my weak point.

“Because you were known to be unreasonable.”

His smile broadened a little.

“It’s the old crime of husbands, isn’t it?” he asked.  “Well, sir, I’m no lawyer, and it’s not my purpose to question you on that matter.  I will put you to no denials.”

I bowed.  The civility of his demeanor was a surprise to me.

“If that were the only affair, I need not keep you ten minutes,” he went on.  “At least, I presume that my friend would find you when he wanted to deliver a message from me?”

“Certainly.  But may I ask why, if that is your intention, you have delayed so long?  You guessed I was at Avranches.  Why not have sent to me?”

The duke tugged his mustache.

“I do not know your name, sir,” he remarked.

“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: