“If this is Mayenne’s work—­” he panted.

The officer caught nothing but the name Mayenne.

“The boy said you were a friend to his Grace, monsieur, but orders are orders.  I have the warrant for your arrest from M. de Belin.”

“At whose instigation?”

“How should I know’?  I am a soldier of the guard.  I have naught to do with it but to arrest you.”

“Let me see the warrant.”

“I am not obliged to.  But I will, though.  It may quiet your bluster.”

He took out the warrant and held it at a safe distance before Lucas’s eyes.  A great light broke in on that personage.

“Mille tonnerres!  I am not the Comte de Mar!”

“Oh, you say that now, do you?  Pity you had not thought of it sooner.”

“But I am not the Comte de Mar!  I am Paul de Lorraine, nephew to my Lord Mayenne.”

“Why don’t you say straight out that you’re the Duc de Guise?”

“I am not the Due de Guise,” Lucas returned with dignity.  He must have been cursing himself that he had not given his name sooner.  “But I am his brother.”

“You take me for a fool.”

“Aye, who shall hang for his folly!”

“You must think me a fool,” the captain repeated.  “The Duke of Guise’s eldest brother is but seventeen—­”

“I did not say I was legitimate.”

“Oh, you did not say that?  You did not know, then, that I could reel off the ages of every Lorraine of them all.  No, M. de Mar, I am not so simple as you think.  You will come along with me to the Bastille.”

“Blockhead!  I’ll have you broken on the wheel for this,” Lucas stormed.  “I am no more Count of Mar than I am King of Spain.  Speak up, you old turnspit,” he shouted to Maitre Menard.  “Am I he?”

Poor Maitre Menard had dropped down on his iron box, too limp and sick to know what was going on.  He only stared helplessly.

“Speak, rascal,” Lucas cried.  “Am I Comte de Mar?”

“No,” the maitre answered in low, faltering tones.  He was at the last point of pain and fear.  “No, monsieur officer, it is as he says.  He is not the Comte de Mar.”

“Who is he, then?”

“I know not,” the maitre stammered.  “He came here last night.  But it is as he says—­he is not the Comte de Mar.”

“Take care, mine host,” the officer returned; “you’re lying.”

I could not wonder at him; if I had not been in a position to know otherwise, I had thought myself the maitre was lying.

“If you had spoken at first I might have believed you,” the captain said, bestowing a kick on him.  “Get out of here, old ass, before I cram your lie down your throat.  And clear your people away from this door.  I’ll not walk through a mob.  Send every man Jack about his business, or it will be the worse for him.  And every woman Jill, too.”

“M. le Capitaine,” Maitre Menard quavered, rising unsteadily to his feet, “you make a mistake.  On my sacred word, you mistake; this is not—­”