“Sir, you are wandering from your point!” I said, with some severity.  For, really, for this old humbug to hint that he had been the baboon who frightened the club at Medenham, that he had been in the Inquisition at Valladolid—­that under the name of D. Riz, as he called it, he had known the lovely Queen of Scots—­was a little too much.  “Sir,” then I said, “you were speaking about a Miss Bechamel.  I really have not time to hear all of your biography.”

“Faith, the good wine gets into my head.” (I should think so, the old toper!  Four bottles all but two glasses.) “To return to poor Blanche.  As I sat laughing, joking with her, she let slip a word, a little word, which filled me with dismay.  Some one had told her a part of the Secret—­the secret which has been divulged scarce thrice in three thousand years—­the Secret of the Freemasons.  Do you know what happens to those uninitiate who learn that secret? to those wretched men, the initiate who reveal it?”

As Pinto spoke to me, he looked through and through me with his horrible piercing glance, so that I sat quite uneasily on my bench.  He continued:  “Did I question her awake?  I knew she would lie to me.  Poor child!  I loved her no less because I did not believe a word she said.  I loved her blue eye, her golden hair, her delicious voice, that was true in song, though when she spoke, false as Eblis!  You are aware that I possess in rather a remarkable degree what we have agreed to call the mesmeric power.  I set the unhappy girl to sleep.  Then she was obliged to tell me all.  It was as I had surmised.  Goby de Mouchy, my wretched, besotted miserable secretary, in his visits to the chateau of the Marquis de Bechamel, who was one of our society, had seen Blanche.  I suppose it was because she had been warned that he was worthless, and poor, artful and a coward, she loved him.  She wormed out of the besotted wretch the secrets of our Order.  ’Did he tell you the number one?’ I asked.

“She said, ‘Yes.’

“‘Did he,’ I further inquired, ‘tell you the—­’

“‘Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me!’ she said, writhing on the sofa, where she lay in the presence of the Marquis de Bechamel, her most unhappy father.  Poor Bechamel, poor Bechamel!  How pale he looked as I spoke!  ‘Did he tell you,’ I repeated with a dreadful calm, ‘the number two?’ She said, ‘Yes.’

“The poor old marquis rose up, and clasping his hands, fell on his knees before Count Cagl——­ Bah!  I went by a different name then.  Vat’s in a name?  Dat vich ye call a Rosicrucian by any other name vil smell as sveet.  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ’I am old—­I am rich.  I have five hundred thousand livres of rentes in Picardy.  I have half as much in Artois.  I have two hundred and eighty thousand on the Grand Livre.  I am promised by my Sovereign a dukedom and his orders with a reversion to my heir.  I am a Grandee of Spain of the First Class, and Duke of Volovento.  Take my titles, my ready money, my life, my honor, everything I have in the world, but don’t ask the third question.’