Monsieur le Comte," said
Porthos.

Saint-Aignan took out the paper. "A note from M. de Bragelonne!" he
exclaimed.

"You see, monsieur, I was right. Oh, when I say a thing--"

"Brought here by M. de Bragelonne himself," the comte murmured, turning
pale. "This is infamous! How could he possibly have come here?"

And the comte rang again.

"Who has been here during my absence with the king?"

"No one, monsieur."

"That is impossible. Some one must have been here."

"No one could possibly have entered, monsieur; since I kept the keys in
my own pocket."

"And yet I find this letter in that lock yonder; some one must have put
it there; it could not have come alone."

Basque opened his arms as if signifying the most absolute ignorance on
the subject.

"Probably it was M. de Bragelonne himself who placed it there," said
Porthos.

"In that case he must have entered here."

"How could that have been, since I have the key in my own pocket?"
returned Basque, perseveringly.

Saint-Aignan crumpled up the letter in his hand, after having read it.

"There is something mysterious about this," he murmured, absorbed in
thought.

Porthos left him to his reflections; but after a while returned to the
mission he had undertaken.

"Shall we return to our little affair?" he said, addressing
Saint-Aignan, as soon as the lackey had disappeared.

"I think I can now understand it, from this note, which has arrived here
in so singular a manner. Monsieur de Bragelonne says that a friend will
call."

"I am his friend, and am the one he alludes to."

"For the purpose of giving me a challenge?"

"Precisely."

"And he complains that I have insulted him?"

"Mortally so."

"In what way, may I ask; for his conduct is so mysterious, that it, at
least, needs some explanation?"

"Monsieur," replied Porthos, "my friend cannot but be right; and, as far
as his conduct is concerned, if it be mysterious, as you say, you have
only yourself to blame for it." Porthos pronounced these words with an
amount of confidence which, for a man who was unaccustomed to his ways,
must have revealed an infinity of sense.

"Mystery, be it so; but what is the mystery about?" said Saint-Aignan.

"You will think it best, perhaps," Porthos replied, with a low bow,
"that I do not enter into particulars."

"Oh, I perfectly understand. We will touch very lightly upon it, then;
so speak, monsieur, I am listening."

"In the first place, monsieur," sa