ore ten last evening," I said, seeing that La Trape was
too far gone for speech.

"Ah! And the man?"

"An hour later."

Du Laurens shook his head, and was preparing to lay down the cat, which
he had taken in his hands, when some appearance led him to examine it
again and more closely. "Why what is this?" he exclaimed, in a tone
of surprise, as he took the body to the window. "There is a large
swelling under its chin."

No one answered.

"Give me a pair of scissors," he continued; and then, after a minute,
when they had been handed to him and he had removed the fur, "Ha!" he
said gravely, "this is not so simple as I thought. The cat has been
poisoned, but by a prick with some sharp instrument."

The King uttered an exclamation of incredulity. "But it drank the
milk," he said. "Some milk that--"

"Pardon, sire," Du Laurens answered positively. "A draught of milk,
however drugged, does not produce an external swelling with a small
blue puncture in the middle."

"What does?" the King asked, with something like a sneer.

"Ah, that is the question," the physician answered. "A ring, perhaps,
with a poison-chamber and hollow dart."

"But there is no question of that here," I said. "Let us be clear. Do
you say that the cat did not die of the milk?"

"I see no proof that it did," he answered. "And many things to show
that it died of poison administered by puncture."

"But then," I answered, in no little confusion of thought, "what of La
Trape?"

He turned, and with him all eyes, to the unfortunate equerry, who still
lay seemingly moribund, with his head propped on some cushions. M. Du
Laurens advanced to him and again felt his pulse, an operation which
appeared to bring a slight tinge of colour to the fading cheeks. "How
much milk did he drink?" the physician asked after a pause.

"More than half a pint," I answered.

"And what besides?"

"A quantity of the King's posset, and a little lemonade."

"And for supper? What did you have?" the leech continued, addressing
himself to his patient.

"I had some wine," he answered feebly. "And a little Frontignac with
the butler; and some honey-mead that the gipsy-wench gave me.

"The gipsy-wench?"

"The butler's girl, of whom I spoke."

M. Du Laurens rose slowly to his feet, and, to my amazement, dealt the
prostrate man a hearty kick; bidding him at the same time to rise.
"Get up, fool! Get up," he continued harshly, yet with a ring of
triumph