“Ah!” cried Monsieur.  “So it is Louis Martin.  How he knew—­But go on.  The others—­”

“I lay the night in the Rue Coupejarrets, not far from the St. Denis gate,” I said, still beating about the bush, “at the sign of the Amour de Dieu.  Opposite is a closed house, shuttered with iron from garret to cellar.  You can enter from a court behind.  It is here that they plot.”

[Illustration:  “WITH A CRY MONSIEUR SPRANG TOWARD ME.”]

Monsieur’s brows drew together, as if he were trying to recall something half remembered, half forgotten.

“But the men,” he cried, “the men!”

“They are three.  One a low fellow named Pontou.”

“Pontou?  The name is nothing to me.  The others?” He was leaning forward eagerly.  I knew of what he was thinking—­the quickest way to reach the Rue Coupejarrets.

“There are two others, Monsieur,” I said slowly.  “Young men—­noble.”

I looked at him.  But no light whatever had broken in upon him.

“Their names, lad!”

Then, seeing him unsuspecting, the fury in my heart surged up and covered every other feeling.  I burst out: 

“Gervais de Grammont and the Comte de Mar.”

He looked me in the face, and he knew I was telling the truth.  Unexpected as it was, hideous as it was, yet he knew I was telling the truth.

I had seen cowards turn pale, but never the colour washed from a brave man’s face.  The sight made my fingers itch to strangle that gray-eyed cheat.

With a cry Monsieur sprang toward me.

“You lie, you cur!”

“No, Monsieur,” I gasped; “it is the truth.”

He let me go then, and laid his hand on the collar of the dog, who had sprung to his aid.  But Monsieur had got a hurt from which the dumb beast’s loyalty could not defend him.  He stood with bowed head, a man stricken to the heart’s core.  Full of wrath as I was, the tears came to my eyes for Monsieur.

He recovered himself.

“It is some damnable mistake!  You have been tricked!”

My rage blazed up again.

“No!  They tricked me once.  Not again!  Not this time.  I knew not who they were till now, when I talked with Marcel.  The two things fitted.”

“Then it is your guess!  You dare to say—­”

“No, I know!” I interrupted rudely, too excited to remember respect.  “Shall I tell what these men were like?  I had never seen M. le Comte nor M. de Grammont before.  One was broad-shouldered and heavy, with a black beard and a black scowl, whom the other called Gervais.  The younger was called Etienne, tall and slender, with gray eyes and fair hair.  And like Monsieur!” I cried, suddenly aware of it.  “Mordieu, how he is like, though he is light!  In face, in voice, in manner!  He speaks like Monsieur.  He has Monsieur’s laugh.  I was blind not to see it.  I believe that was why I loved him so much.”

“It was he whom you would not betray?”