“Monsieur, I have grave doubts of the boy’s honesty.”

“Doubts!” cried Monsieur, with a sudden laugh.  “It is not a case for doubts.  The boy states facts.”

He seated himself in his chair, his face growing stern again.  The little action seemed to make him no longer merely my questioner, but my judge.

“Now, Felix Broux, let us get to the bottom of this.”

“Monsieur,” I began, struggling to put the case clearly, “I learned of the plot by accident.  I did not guess for a long time it was you who were the victim.  When I found out that, I came straight here to you.  Monsieur, there are four men in the plot, and one of them has stood my friend.”

“And my assassin!”

“He is a black-hearted villain!” I acknowledged.  “For he swore no harm was meant to you.  He swore it was only a private grudge against M. Lucas.  But when one of them let out the truth I came straight to you.”

“That is likely true,” said Vigo, “for he was ready to kill the men who barred his way.”

“You were in a plot to kill my secretary!”

“Ah, Monsieur!” I cried.

“You—­Felix Broux!”

I curled with shame.

“M.  Lucas had struck me,” I muttered; “I thought the fight was fair enough.  And they threatened my life.”

Monsieur’s contemptuous eyes shrivelled me as flame shrivels a leaf.

“You—­a Broux of St. Quentin!”

Lucas, who had watched me close all the while, as they all three did, said now: 

“I believe he is a cheat, Monsieur.  There is no plot.  He has learned of your plan through the eavesdropper he speaks of and thinks to make credit out of a trumped-up tale of murder.”

“No,” answered Monsieur.  “You may think that, Lucas, for he is a stranger to you.  But I know him.  He was a fool sometimes, but he was never dishonest.  You used to be fond of me, Felix.  What has happened to make you consort with my enemies?”

“Ah, Monsieur, I love you.  I have always loved you,” I cried.  “I am not lying now, nor cheating you.  There is a plot.  I learned it and came straight to you, though I was under oath not to betray them.”

“Then, in Heaven’s name, Felix,” burst out Vigo, “which side are you on?”

Monsieur began to laugh.

“That is what I should like to know.  For, by St. Quentin, I can make nothing of it.”

“Monsieur,” insisted Lucas, “whatever he was once, I believe him a trickster now.”

Monsieur bent his keen eyes on me.

“No; he is plainly in earnest.  Therefore with patience I look to get some sense out of this snarl of a story.  Something is there we have not yet fathomed.”

“Will Monsieur let me speak?”

“I have done naught but urge you to do so for some time past,” he answered dryly.

“Monsieur, you know my father would not let me leave St. Quentin with you, three months back.  But at length he said I should come, and I reached Paris last night and, since it was late, lodged at an inn.  This morning I came to your gate, but the guard would not let me enter.  I was so mad to see you, Monsieur, that when you drove out I sprang up on your coach-step—­”