“I thought it must be he,” I protested.  “A young man who sat by Monsieur’s side, elegant and proud-looking, with an aquiline face—­”

“That is Lucas, that is his secretary,” declared Yeux-gris, as who should say, “That is his scullion.”

Gervais looked at him oddly a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and demanded of me: 

“What next?”

“I came away angry.”

“And walked all the way here to risk your life in a haunted house?  Pardieu! too plain a lie.”

“Oh, I would have done the like; we none of us fear ghosts in the daytime,” said Yeux-gris.

“You may believe him; I am no such fool.  He has been caught in two lies; first the Bethunes, then the Comte de Mar.  He is a clumsy spy; they might have found a better one.  Not but what that touch about ill-treatment at Monsieur’s hand was well thought of.  That was Monsieur’s suggestion, I warrant, for the boy has talked like a dolt else.”

“I am no liar,” I cried hotly.  “Ask Jacques whether he did not tell me about the Bethunes.  It is his lie, not mine.  I did not know the Comte de Mar was dead, and this Lucas of yours is handsome enough for a count.  I came here, as I told you, in curiosity concerning Maitre Jacques’s story.  I had no idea of seeing you or any living man.  It is the truth, monsieur.”

“I believe you,” Yeux-gris answered.  “You have an honest face.  You came into my house uninvited.  Well, I forgive it, and invite you to stay.  You shall be my valet.”

“He shall be nobody’s valet,” Gervais cried.

The gray eyes flashed, but their owner rejoined lightly: 

“You have a man; surely I should have one, too.  And I understand the services of M. Felix are not engaged.”

“Mille tonnerres! you would take this spy—­this sneak—­”

“As I would take M. de Paris, if I chose,” responded Yeux-gris, with a cold hauteur that smacked more of a court than of this shabby room.  He added lightly again: 

“You think him a spy, I do not.  But in any case, he must not blab of us.  Therefore he stays here and brushes my clothes.  Marry, they need it.”

Easily, with grace, he had disposed of the matter.  But I said: 

“Monsieur, I shall do nothing of the kind.”

“What!” he cried, as if the clothes-brush itself had risen in rebellion, “what! you will not.”

“No,” said I.

“And why not?” he demanded, plainly thinking me demented.

“Because I know you are against the Duke of St. Quentin.”

Whatever they had thought me, neither expected that speech.

“I am no spy or sneak,” said I.  “It is true I came here by chance; it is true Monsieur turned me off this morning.  But I was born on his land and I am no traitor.  I will not be valet or henchman for either of you, if I die for it.”

I was like to die for it.  For Gervais whipped out his sword and sprang for me.  I thought I saw Yeux-gris’s out, too, when Gervais struck me over the head with his sword-hilt.  The rest was darkness.