At the name, intelligence flashed over me, sudden and clear as last night’s lightning-gleam.  Yet this thing I seemed to see was so hideous, so horrible, that my mind recoiled from it.

“Marcel,” I stammered, shuddering, “Marcel—­”

“Mordieu! what ails you?  Is some one walking on your grave?”

“Marcel, how is M. le Comte named?”

“The Comte de Mar?  Oh, do you mean his names in baptism?  Charles-Andre-Etienne-Marie.  They call him Etienne.  Why do you ask?  What is it?”

It was a certainty, then.  Yet I could not bring myself to believe this horrible thing.

“I have never seen him.  How does he look?”

“Oh, not at all like Monsieur.  He has fair hair and gray eyes—­que diable!”

For I had flung open Monsieur’s door and dashed in.

IX

The honour of St. Quentin.

Monsieur was seated at his table, talking in a low tone and hurriedly to Lucas.  They started and stared as I broke in upon them, and then Monsieur cried out to me: 

“Ah, Felix!  You have come to your senses.”

“I will tell Monsieur all, the whole story.”

He tested my honesty with a glance, then looked beyond me at Marcel, standing agape in the doorway.

“Leave us, Marcel.  Go down-stairs.  Leave that door open, and shut the door into the corridor.”

Marcel obeyed.  Monsieur turned to me with a smile.

“Now, Felix.”

I had hardly been able to hold my words back while Marcel was disposed of.

“Monsieur, I knew not, myself, the names of those men.  Now I have found out.  They—­”

My eyes met the secretary’s fixed excitedly upon me and the words died on my tongue.  Even in my rage I had the grace to know that this was no story to tell Monsieur before another.

“I will tell Monsieur alone.”

“You may speak before M. Lucas,” he rejoined impatiently.

“No,” I persisted.  “I must tell Monsieur alone.”

He saw in my face that I had strong reasons for asking it, and said to the secretary: 

“You may go, Lucas.”

Lucas protested.

“M. le Duc will be wiser not to see him alone.  He is not to be trusted.  Perchance, Monsieur, this demand covers an attack on your life.”

The warning nettled my lord.  He answered curtly: 

“You may go.”

“Monsieur—­”

“Go!”

Lucas passed out, giving me, as he went, a look of hatred that startled me.  But I did not pay it much heed.

“Well!” exclaimed Monsieur.

But by this time I had bethought myself what a story it was I had to tell a father of his son.  I could not blurt it out in two words.  I stood silent, not knowing how to start.

“Felix!  Beware how much longer you abuse my patience!”

“Monsieur,” I began, “the spy in the house is named Martin.”