urned away from my
messenger as he came up. Jacques handed the note to my lady through
the fence, and she took it gently by the corner, fearing to soil it.
She held it up to look at the name written upon it, and seeing it was
her own, looked again more curiously at the writing. She did not know
the hand. Then she gaily called to the Chevalier:

"Oh, Charles, come here; see what I have; it is a missive to your wife,
and from some gay gallant, too. I do not know the writing. Do you
come here and read it to me. My hands are so--" She held up two small
white hands dabbled in the dirt.

"Perhaps some invitation to a court ball. We'll go, eh, Agnes?"

He came like the fine, strong gentleman he was, across the garden,
taking the note from her and tearing it open. He began straightway to
read, my lady on tip-toe behind him reading over his shoulder, and
holding her contaminated hands away from his coat. His face grew
puzzled at the first, then as he seemed to finish, he stood a pace
apart from my lady and read again. There was murder in his face--yet
so white and quiet.

He threw down the note and ground it into the soft earth beneath his
heel. Then he caught my lady firmly by both her shoulders and held her
fast, at full arm's length, gazing steadily into her face.

"God in heaven," as Jacques said to me; "Master, what eyes has that
Chevalier de la Mora! No man could lie to him with those eyes reading
what a fellow thought." Jacques could not make himself to leave; he
stood rigid and watched.

"Well, Madame?"

"She tried to laugh, but her husband's face forbade that this could be
a spark of lover's play.

"Well, Madame?"

"Why, Charles, what is the matter with you, you behave so strangely?"

The Chevalier had grown an older man, his face stern and resolute, eyes
a-glitter, and mouth drawn in tense, determined lines. A most
dangerous man.

"Why, Charles, what is the matter?"

"When did you meet him at Sceaux? What did you do?"

"Meet who?"

"Don't lie to me, woman, I am in no mood for subterfuge."

She besought him with one frightened look, one step forward to him as
if for protection, which he repelled; then she looked as though she
might weep.

"Neither do you weep. Tell me how many notes like this have you
received?"

"Like what? I could not read it, you held it so high," she sobbed.

The Chevalier stooped down, picked up the crumpled paper from the
earth, and smoothed it out. He t