he who lies at the bottom of the moat of Condillac?"

"Let there be an end to this jesting," growled Marius. "On guard,
Monsieur le Marquis!"

"Patience! patience!" Florimond implored him. "You shall have your way
with me, I promise you. But of your charity, messieurs, tell me first
the name of that man."

"It was Garnache," said Fortunio, "and if the information will serve
you, it was I who slew him."

"You?" cried Florimond. "Tell me of it, I beg you."

"Do you fool us?" questioned Marius in a rage that overmastered his
astonishment, his growing suspicion that here all was not quite as it
seemed.

"Fool you? But no. I do but wish to show you something that I learned in
Italy. Tell me how you slew him, Monsieur le Capitaine."

"I think we are wasting time," said the captain, angry too. He felt that
this smiling gentleman was deriding the pair of them; it crossed his
mind that for some purpose of his own the Marquis was seeking to gain
time. He drew his sword.

Florimond saw the act, watched it, and his eyes twinkled. Suddenly
Marius's sword shot out at him. He leapt back beyond the table, and
threw himself on guard, his lips still wreathed in their mysterious
smile.

"The time has come, messieurs," said he. "I should have preferred to
know more of how you slew that Monsieur de Garnache; but since you deny
me the information, I shall do my best without it. I'll try to conjure
up his ghost, to keep you entertained, Monsieur le Capitaine." And then,
raising his voice, his sword, engaging now his brother's:

"Ola, Monsieur de Garnache!" he cried. "To me!"

And then it seemed to those assassins that the Marquis had been neither
mad nor boastful when he had spoken of strange things he had
learned beyond the Alps, or else it was they themselves were turned
light-headed, for the doors of a cupboard at the far end of the room
flew open suddenly, and from between them stepped the stalwart figure of
Martin de Garnache, a grim smile lifting the corners of his mustachios,
a naked sword in his hand flashing back the sunlight that flooded
through the window.

They paused, aghast, and they turned ashen; and then in the mind of each
arose the same explanation of this phenomenon. This Garnache wore the
appearance of the man who had announced himself by that name when he
came to Condillac a fortnight ago. Then, the sallow, black-haired knave
who had last night proclaimed himself as Garnache in disguise was some
impostor.