mere question of my
liberty. I was all eyes and ears for whatever information I could
gather.

Yeux-gris spoke to me, for the first time gravely:

"This is not a time when folks take pleasure-trips to Paris. What
brought you?"

"I used to be Monsieur's page down at St. Quentin," I answered, deeming
the straight truth best. "When we learned that he was in Paris, my
father sent me up to him. I reached the city last night, and lay at the
Amour de Dieu. This morning I went to the duke's hotel, but the guard
would not let me in. Then, when Monsieur drove out I tried to get speech
with him, but he would have none of me."

The bitterness I felt over my rebuff must have been in my voice and
face, for Gervais spoke abruptly:

"And do you hate him for that?"

"Nay," said I, churlishly enough. "It is his to do as he chooses. But I
hate the Comte de Mar for striking me a foul blow."

"The Comte de Mar!" exclaimed Yeux-gris.

"His son."

"He has no son."

"But he has, monsieur. The Comte de--"

"He is dead," said Yeux-gris.

"Why, we knew naught--" I was beginning, when Gervais broke in:

"You say the fellow's honest, when he tells such tales as this! He saw
the Comte de Mar--!"

"I thought it must be he," I protested. "A young man who sat by
Monsieur's side, elegant and proud-looking, with an aquiline face--"

"That is Lucas, that is his secretary," declared Yeux-gris, as who
should say, "That is his scullion."

Gervais looked at him oddly a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and
demanded of me:

"What next?"

"I came away angry."

"And walked all the way here to risk your life in a haunted house?
Pardieu! too plain a lie."

"Oh, I would have done the like; we none of us fear ghosts in the
daytime," said Yeux-gris.

"You may believe him; I am no such fool. He has been caught in two lies;
first the Bethunes, then the Comte de Mar. He is a clumsy spy; they
might have found a better one. Not but what that touch about
ill-treatment at Monsieur's hand was well thought of. That was
Monsieur's suggestion, I warrant, for the boy has talked like a dolt
else."

"I am no liar," I cried hotly. "Ask Jacques whether he did not tell me
about the Bethunes. It is his lie, not mine. I did not know the Comte de
Mar was dead, and this Lucas of yours is handsome enough for a count. I
came here, as I told you, in curiosity concerning Maitre Jacques's
story. I had no idea of seeing you or any living man. It is the truth,