“Monsieur,” I cried, half choked, “there is a plot—­a vile plot to murder you!”

“Where?  At St. Quentin?”

“No, Monsieur.  Here in Paris.  In the streets to-night, when you go to the king.”

Monsieur sprang to his feet, his hand on his sword.  Lucas turned white.  Vigo swore.  Monsieur cried: 

“How, in God’s name, know you that?”

“You have been betrayed, Monsieur.  Your plan is known.  You leave the house to-night, near a quarter of eleven, to go in secret to the king.  You leave by the little door in the alley—­”

“Diable!” breathed Vigo.

“They set on you on your way—­three of them—­to run you through before you can draw.”

“But, ventre bleu!  Monsieur is not alone.”

“No; he walks between you and M. Lucas.”

Not one of them spoke.  They stared at me as if I were something uncanny.  I, a raw country boy, disclosing a perfect knowledge of their most intimate plans!

“How know you this?” Monsieur demanded of me.  But he was not looking at me.  His keen glance went first to Lucas, then to Vigo, the two men who had shared his confidence.  The secretary cried out: 

“You cannot think, Monsieur, that I betrayed you?”

Vigo said nothing.  His steady eyes never left Monsieur’s face.

“No,” answered Monsieur to Lucas, “I cannot think it.”  And to Vigo he said:  “I shall accuse you when I accuse myself.  But—­none knew this thing save our three selves.”  And his gaze went back to Lucas.

“It is not likely to be he,” I said, impelled to be just to him though I did not like him, “for they meant to kill him as well.”

Lucas started, then instantly recovered himself.

“A comprehensive plot, Monsieur,” he said, with a smile.

“Then who was it?” cried Monsieur to me.  “You know.  Speak.”

“There is a spy in the house—­an eavesdropper,” I said, and then paused.

“Aye?” said Monsieur.  “Who?”

Now the answer to this was easy, yet I flinched before it; for I knew well enough what Monsieur would do.  He feared no man, and waited on no man’s advice.  And if he was a good lover, he was a good hater.  He would not inform the governor, and await the tardy course of justice, that would probably accomplish—­nothing.  Nor would he consider the troubled times and the danger of his position, and ignore the affair, as many would have deemed best.  He would not stop to think what the Sixteen might have to say to it.  No; he would call out his guards and slay the plotters in the Rue Coupejarrets like the wolves they were.  It was right he should, but—­I owed my life to Yeux-gris.

“His name, man, his name!” Monsieur was crying.

“Monsieur,” I returned, flushing hot, “Monsieur—­”

“Do you know his name?”

“Yes, Monsieur, I know his name, but—­”

Monsieur looked at me in surprise and frowning, impatience.  Quickly Lucas struck in: