“I am Louis de Pavannes,” he replied with impatience.

I stared at him in silence:  thinking—­thinking—­thinking.  And then I said slowly, “You have a cousin of the same name?”

“I have.”

“He fell prisoner to the Vicomte de Caylus at Moncontour?”

“He did,” he answered curtly.  “But what of that, sir?”

Again I did not answer—­at once.  The murder was out.  I remembered, in the dim fashion in which one remembers such things after the event, that I had heard Louis de Pavannes, when we first became acquainted with him, mention this cousin of the same name; the head of a younger branch.  But our Louis living in Provence and the other in Normandy, the distance between their homes, and the troubles of the times had loosened a tie which their common religion might have strengthened.  They had scarcely ever seen one another.  As Louis had spoken of his namesake but once during his long stay with us, and I had not then foreseen the connection to be formed between our families, it was no wonder that in the course of months the chance word had passed out of my head, and I had clean forgotten the subject of it.  Here however, he was before my eyes, and seeing him; I saw too what the discovery meant.  It meant a most joyful thing! a most wonderful thing which I longed to tell Croisette and Marie.  It meant that our Louis de Pavannes—­my cheek burned for my want of faith in him—­was no villain after all, but such a noble gentleman as we had always till this day thought him!  It meant that he was no court gallant bent on breaking a country heart for sport, but Kit’s own true lover!  And—­and it meant more—­it meant that he was yet in danger, and still ignorant of the vow that unchained fiend Bezers had taken to have his life!  In pursuing his namesake we had been led astray, how sadly I only knew now!  And had indeed lost most precious time.

“Your wife, M. de Pavannes”—­I began in haste, seeing the necessity of explaining matters with the utmost quickness.  “Your wife is—­”

“Ah, my wife!” he cried interrupting me, with anxiety in his tone.  “What of her?  You have seen her!”

“I have.  She is safe at your house in the Rue de St. Merri.”

“Thank Heaven for that!” he replied fervently.  Before he could say more Captain Andrea interrupted us.  I could see that his suspicions were aroused afresh.  He pushed rudely between us, and addressing me said, “Now, young sir, your boat is ready.”

“My boat?” I answered, while I rapidly considered the situation.  Of course I did not want to cross the river now.  No doubt Pavannes—–­this Pavannes—­could guide me to Louis’ address.  “My boat?”

“Yes, it is waiting,” the Italian replied, his black eyes roving from one to the other of us.

“Then let it wait!” I answered haughtily, speaking with an assumption of anger.  “Plague upon you for interrupting us!  I shall not cross the river now.  This gentleman can give me the information I want.  I shall take him back with me.”