I saw in one glance that Yeux-gris was no less astounded than I, and from that instant, though the inwardness of the matter was still a riddle to me, my heart acquitted him of all dishonesty, of all complicity.  His was not the face of a parricide.

“Lucas!” he cried, in a dearth of words. “Lucas!”

I was staring at Lucas in thick bewilderment.  The man was transformed from the one I knew.  At M. le Duc’s he had been pale, nervous, and shaken—­senselessly and contemptibly scared, as I thought, since he was warned of the danger and need not face it.  But now he was another man.  I can think only of those lanterns I have seen, set with coloured glass.  They look dull enough all day, but when the taper within is lighted shine like jewels.  So Lucas now.  His face, so keen and handsome of feature, was brilliant, his eyes sparkling, his figure instinct with defiance.  A smile crossed his face.

“Aye,” he answered evenly, “it is Lucas.”

M. le Comte appeared to be in a state of stupor.  He could not for a space find his tongue to demand: 

“How, in the name of Heaven, come you here?”

“To fight Grammont,” Lucas answered at once.

“A lie!” I shouted.  “You’re Grammont’s friend.  You came here to warn him off.  It’s your plot!”

“Felix!  The plot?” Yeux-gris cried.

“The plot’s to murder Monsieur.  Martin let it out.  I thought it was you and Grammont.  But it’s Lucas and Grammont!”

Lucas hesitated.  Even now he debated whether he could not lie out of it.  Then he burst into laughter.

“It seems the cat’s out of the bag.  Aye, M. le Comte de Mar, I came to warn Grammont off.  The duke will be here straightway.  How will you like to swing for parricide?”

Yeux-gris stared at him, neither in fear nor in fury, but in utter stupefaction.

“But Gervais?  He plotted with you?  But he hates you!”

We gaped at Lucas like yokels at a conjurer.  He made us no answer but looked from one to the other of us with the alertness of an angry viper.  We were two, but without swords.  I knew he was thinking how easiest to end us both.

M. le Comte cried:  “You!  You come from Navarre’s camp, from M. de Rosny!”

“Aye.  I have outwitted more than one man.”

“Mordieu!  I was right to hate you!”

Lucas laughed.  Yeux-gris blazed out: 

“Traitor and thief!  You stole the money.  I said that from the first.  You drove us from the house.  How you and Grammont—­”

“Came together?  Very simple,” Lucas answered with easy insolence.  “Grammont did not love Monsieur, your honoured father.  It was child’s play to make an assignation with him and to lament the part forced on me by Monsieur.  Grammont was ready enough to scent a scheme of M. le Duc’s to ruin him.  He had said as much to Monsieur, as you may deign to remember.”

“Aye,” said M. le Comte, still like a puzzled child, “he was angry with my father.  But afterward he changed his mind.  He knew it was you, and only you.”