The vicomte looked steadily into the priest’s eyes.  There was something lurking in his gaze which would have caused many a brave man to lower his eyes, But there was a vein of fine metal in this priest’s composition; and the vicomte’s glance broke harmlessly.

“Stare as long and as hard as you please, Monsieur.  Shall I ask this question before all these men?”

“I will accompany you.”  The vicomte had suddenly recovered all his mental balance.

Brother Jacques released his wrists, took up a lighted candle; and the two of them left the room, followed by wondering glances, not the least of these being the Chevalier’s, who was at loss to explain the vicomte’s sudden docility.  The priest and the vicomte soon entered the latter’s cabin, and the former placed the candle on the table.

“Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte, where were you on the night of the nineteenth of last February?”

“What is that to you?”

“To me?  Nothing.  To you?  Everything.”

“That is a curious question.”

“It had power enough to bring you here with me,” replied Brother Jacques complacently.

“Why do you wish to know?”

“I saw you,” briefly.

“A great many persons saw me that night.  I was on guard at the Louvre.”

“Between the hours of eleven and twelve?”

Silence.  A spider, seeing the light, swung down in jerks from the beams and dangled at the side of the candlestick.  Suddenly the priest reached over and caught the vicomte’s restless hand.

“Rest assured, Jesuit, that when you broke my sword you left me weaponless.”

“I did well to break that sword.  It was an evil one.”

“You are very strong for a priest,” coolly.

“Oh, do not doubt that there is a man within these robes.  Listen.  Your path and that of the Chevalier du Cevennes must not cross again.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“Not to you.  Behind De Leviston you struck first; now from behind a drunken soldier.  It was you all the time.  You tricked us cleverly.  You were such a good fellow, laughing, witty, debonair.  For my part, I would have sworn that D’Herouville was the man.  Besides you, Monsieur, D’Herouville is a tyro, a Mazarin to a Machiavelli.”

“You flatter me.  But why not D’Herouville instead of me?”

“Monsieur, your very audacity betrayed you.  Last night you put on the grey cloak.  A log spurted a flame, and at once I remembered all.”

“Indeed,” ironically.

“Yes.  You knocked a priest into the gutter that night as you were flying from the scene of your crime.  I was that priest.  But for the cloak and your remarkable nerve in putting it on, I should have remained in total darkness.”

“Beginning with a certain day, you will ever remain in darkness.”  The vicomte’s face was not very pleasant just then.

“The first time you annoy Monsieur le Chevalier, who is the legitimate son of the Marquis de Perigny. . . .”