Next moment I almost laughed out in relief.  It was not Pontou I had seen, but Louis Martin.  And he was living.  The vision was no omen, but a mere happening.  Was I a babe to shiver so?

And yet Martin, if not dead, was like to die.  He was in duress as a Leaguer spy, to await King Henry’s will.  All who entered this house lay under a curse.  We should none of us pass out again, save to our tombs.

We entered the well-remembered little passage, the well-remembered court, where shards of glass still strewed the pavement.  Some one—­the gendarmes, I fancy, when they took away Pontou—­had put a heavy padlock on the door Lucas and Grammont left swinging.

“We go in by your postern, Felix,” my master said.  “M.  Lucas, I confess I prefer that you go first.”

Lucas put his back to the wall.

“Why go farther, M. le Comte?”

“Do you long for interruption’?”

“We were not noticed coming in.  The street was quiet.”

He crossed the court abruptly and went down the alley to look into the street.

“Not a soul in sight,” he said, coming back.  “I think we shall not be interrupted.  Still, it is wise to use every care.  We will fight, if you like, in the house.”

He opened with his knife the fastened shutter, and leaped lightly in.  Monsieur followed.  I, the last, was for closing the shutter, but he stopped me.

“No; leave it wide.  I have no fancy for a walk in pitch-darkness with M. Lucas.”

“Do we fight here?” Lucas asked, facing us in the wide, square hall.  “We can let in more light.”

“You seem anxious, my friend, to call attention to your whereabouts.  As I am host, I designate the fighting-ground.  Up-stairs, if you please.”

“I suppose you insist on my walking first,” Lucas sneered.

“I request it, monsieur.”

“With all the willingness in the world,” his rogue-ship answered, setting foot straightway on the stair and mounting steadily, never turning to see how near we followed, or what we did with our hands.  His trust made me ashamed of our lack of it.  I almost believed we did him injustice.  Yet at heart I could not bring myself to credit him with any fair dealing.

We went up one flight, up two.  We had left behind us the twilight of the lower story, had not reached dawn again at the top.  We walked in blackness.  Suddenly I halted.

“Monsieur!”

“What?”

“I heard a noise.”

“Of course you did.  The place is full of rats.”

“It was no rat.  It was footsteps.”

We all three held still.

“There, monsieur.  Don’t you hear?”

“Nothing, Felix; your teeth are chattering.  Cross yourself and come on.”

But I could not stand it.

“I’ll go back and see, monsieur.”

“No,” Lucas said, striding back from the foot of the next flight.  “I will go.”