A tapster, lounging in the courtyard, had seen my man pass out, and he opined with much reason that I should not catch him.  Yet I ran a hundred yards up street and a hundred yards down street, shouting on the name of Lucas, calling him coward and skulker, bidding him come forth and fight me.  The whole neighbourhood became aware than I wanted one Lucas to fight:  lights twinkled in windows; men, women, and children poured out of doors.  But Lucas, if it were he, had for the second time vanished soft-footed into the night.

I returned with drooping tail to M. Etienne.  He was alone, sitting up in bed awaiting me, his cheeks scarlet, his eyes blazing.

“He is gone,” I panted.  “I looked everywhere, but he was gone.  Oh, if I caught Lucas—­”

“You little fool!” he exclaimed.  “This was not Lucas.  Had you waited long enough to hear your name called, I had told you.  This is no errand of Lucas but a very different matter.”

He sat a moment, thinking, still with that glitter of excitement in his eyes.  The next instant he threw off the bedclothes and started to rise.

“Get my clothes, Felix.  I must go to the Hotel de Lorraine.”

But I flung myself upon him, pushing him back into bed and dragging the cover over him by main force.

“You can go nowhere, M. Etienne; it is madness.  The surgeon said you must lie here for three days.  You will get a fever in your wounds; you shall not go.”

“Get off me, ’od rot you; you’re smothering me,” he gasped.  Cautiously I relaxed my grip, still holding him down.  He appealed:  “Felix, I must go.  So long as there is a spark of life left in me, I have no choice but to go.”

“Monsieur, you said you were done with the Leaguers—­with M. de Mayenne.”

“Aye, so I did,” he cried.  “But this—­but this is Lorance.”

Then, at my look of mystification, he suddenly opened his hand and tossed me the letter he had held close in his palm.

I read: 

M. de Mar appears to consider himself of very little consequence, or of very great, since he is absent a whole month from the Hotel de Lorraine.  Does he think he is not missed?  Or is he so sure of his standing that he fears no supplanting?  In either case he is wrong.  He is missed but he will not be missed forever.  He may, if he will, be forgiven; or he may, if he will, be forgotten.  If he would escape oblivion, let him come to-night, at the eleventh hour, to lay his apologies at the feet of

     LORANCE DE MONTLUC.

“And she—­”

“Is cousin and ward to the Duke of Mayenne.  Yes, and my heart’s desire.”

“Monsieur—­”

“Aye, you begin to see it now,” he cried vehemently.  “You see why I have stuck to Paris these three years, why I could not follow my father into exile.  It was more than a handful of pistoles caused the breach with Monsieur; more than a quarrel over Gervais de Grammont.  That was the spark kindled the powder, but the train was laid.”