he afternoon of the day previous the Chalons diligence brought a
stranger who sought out Germain in his quarters. The face was so
familiar that Germain's attention was riveted upon him.

"You do not know me, I see," said the man; "but I am come to do you a
good turn, a fine turn, a noble turn."

By something erratic in his look Lecour recognised the would-be slayer
of de Lery, and his hand crept towards the hilt of his sword.

"Don't be afraid of me," said the maniac; "we are allies."

"I am not afraid," Lecour answered. "What do you wish of me?"

"To give you this," Philibert exclaimed gaily, handing him a packet.
"Take it; your battle is won."

With incredulous wonder Lecour looked at the parcel.

"Do you know who I am?" the stranger cried.

"You are Philibert," replied Lecour.

"I am The Instrument of Vengeance," the other corrected, and departed
without a bow.

On opening the packet Germain, to his utter astonishment, found de
Lotbiniere's Record, the precious armoury collected with so much labour
by his enemies and so necessary to their case.

As he looked over the documents it contained and felt the sharpness of
the different thrusts, he turned hot and dizzy; but the fact that this
great find was in his possession, and lost to his opponents, gave him
inexpressible satisfaction. He pored over them till far past midnight,
when at last his feeling of exultation gave way to overwhelming remorse.
His aspect suddenly became that of haggard misery itself; his head
dropped, and he murmured in a low, agonised voice, "Is poor Germain
Lecour really a liar, a pretender, a forger, a----" Aghast, his lips
refused to pronounce the word.

His head dropped still lower; at the movement something fell out of his
breast upon the floor. For some moments he did not perceive it. "Yet
these things--liar, pretender, forger--what are they more than words
contrived by the powerful to condemn the doings of the weak? Whom have I
wronged? Have not I only defended myself? Why should the contrivances of
society--not mine--stand between me and all that is worth living for?"
His glance at length lighted upon the object which had fallen from his
bosom--a large locket. The fall had sprung open its lid, and he was face
to face with the miniature image of Cyrene. The light of his consuming
passion flamed in his strangely transformed eyes.

"For you, everything," he murmured, sobbing.

CHAPTER XLI

A POOR ADVOCATE

The Princ