He sprang to the saddle with a smiling salute to his guardians, and the little train clattered off.

Pierre came to my elbow with an open paper—­the order signed and sealed for M. de Mar’s release.

“Here, my young cockerel, you and d’Auvray are to take this to the Bastille, and it will be strange if your master does not walk free again.  His Grace bids you tell M. de Mar he remembers Wednesday night, underground.”

“And I remember Tuesday night in the council-room, Pierre,” I was beginning, but he cut me short.  Even now that I was in favour, he risked no mention of his disobedience.  He packed me off with d’Auvray on the instant; I had no chance to ask him whether he suspected us yesterday.  Sometimes I have thought he did, but I am bound to say he gave us no look to show it.

D’Auvray and I walked straight across Paris to the many-towered Bastille.  It seemed a little way.  Before the potent name of Mayenne bars flew open; a sentry on guard in the court led us into a small room all stone, floor, walls, ceiling, where sat at the table some high official, perhaps the governor of the prison himself.  He was an old campaigner, grizzled and weather-beaten, his right sleeve hanging empty.  An interesting figure, no doubt, but I paid him scant attention, for at his side stood Lucas.

“I come on M. de Mayenne’s business,” he was expostulating, vehement, yet civil.  “I suppose he did not think it necessary to write the order, since you know me.”

“The regulations, M. de Lorraine—­” The officer broke off to demand of our escort, “Well, what now?”

I went straight up to him, not waiting permission, and held out my paper.

“An order, if it please you, monsieur, for the Comte de Mar’s release.”

Lucas’s hand went out to snatch and crumple it; then his clenched fist dropped to his side.  It seemed as if his eyes would blacken the paper with their fire.

“Just that—­the requisition for M. de Mar’s release,” the officer told him, looking up from it.  “All perfectly regular and in order.  In five minutes, M. de Lorraine, the Comte de Mar shall be before you.  You may have all the conversation you wish.”

Lucas’s face was as blank as the wall.

“I am a soldier, and a soldier’s orders must be obeyed,” the officer went on to explain, evidently not caring to offend the general’s nephew.  “Without the written order I could not admit your brother of Guise.  But now you can have all the conversation you desire with M. de Mar.”

Lucas’s face did not change, save to scowl at the very name of his brother Guise.  He said curtly, “No, I must get back to his Grace,” and, barely bowing, went from the room.

“Now, I don’t make that out,” the keeper muttered in his beard.  That Lucas should be in one moment cured of his urgent need of seeing the Comte de Mar was too much for him, but no riddle to me.  I knew he had come to stab M. Etienne in his cell.  It was his last chance, and he had missed it.  I feared him no longer, for I believed in Mayenne’s faith.  My master once released, Lucas could not hurt him.