“Out of the way, then, curse you!”

Before the astonished priest, who was a young man, could rise from the pavement where the impact had sent him sprawling, the assailant had disappeared in the alley.  He gained the door of the low tavern, flung it open, pushed by every one, upsetting several, all the while the bloody rapier in one hand and the mask held in place by the other.  The astonished inmates of the tavern saw him leap like a huge bird and vanish through one of the windows, carrying the sash with him.  But a nail caught the grey cloak, and it fluttered back to the floor.  Scarce a moment had passed when the pursuers crowded in.  When questioned, the stupefied host could only point toward the splintered window frame.  Through this the men scrambled, and presently their yells died away in the distance.

A young man of ruddy countenance, his body clothed in the garments of a gentleman’s lackey, stooped and gathered up the cloak.

“Holy Virgin!” he murmured, his eyes bulging, “there can not be two cloaks like this in Paris; it’s the very same.”

He crushed it under his arm and in the general confusion gained the alley, took to his legs, and became a moving black shadow in the grey.  He made off toward the Seine.

Meanwhile terror stalked in the corridors of the hotel.  Lights flashed from window to window.  The court was full of servants and mercenaries.  For the master lay dead in the corridor above.  A beautiful young woman, dressed in her night-robes, her feet in slippers, hair disordered and her eyes fixed with horror, gazed down at the lifeless shape.  The stupor of sleep still held her in its dulling grasp.  She could not fully comprehend the tragedy.  Her ladies wailed about her, but she heeded them not.  It was only when the captain of the military household approached her that she became fully aroused.  She pressed her hand against her madly beating heart.

[Illustration:  She pressed her hands against her madly beating heart.]

“Who did this?” she asked.

“A man in a mask, Madame,” replied the captain, kneeling.  He gently loosed the sword from the stiffening fingers.  The master of twenty-five years was gone.

“In a mask?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And the motive ?”

“Not robbery, since nothing is disturbed about the hotel save in monsieur’s library.  The drawers have all been pulled out.”

With a sharp cry she crossed the corridor and entered the library.  The open drawers spoke dumbly but surely.

“Gone!” she whispered.  “We are all lost!  He was fortunate in dying.”  Terror and fright vanished from her face and her eyes, leaving the one impassive and the other cold.  She returned to the body and the look she cast on it was without pity or regret.  Alive, she had detested him; dead, she could gaze on him with indifference.  He had died, leaving her the legacy of the headsman’s ax.  And his play-woman? would she weep or laugh? . . .  She was free.  It came quickly and penetrated like a dry wine:  she was free.  Four odious years might easily be forgiven if not forgotten.  “Take him to his room,” she said softly.  After all, he had died gallantly.