now it."

Lucas held out the bare sword, hilt toward us.

"Monsieur had a box for weapon yesterday, but as I prefer to fight in
the established way, I ventured to provide him with a sword."

"Thoughtful of you, Lucas. Is this the make of sword you elect to be
killed with?"

He was bending the blade to try its temper. Lucas unsheathed his own.

"M. de Mar may have his choice."

M. de Mar professed himself satisfied with the blade given him.

"Have you summoned your seconds, Lucas?"

Lucas raised his eyebrows.

"Is that necessary? I thought we might settle our affairs without delay.
I confess myself impatient."

"Your sentiments for once are mine."

"It is understood you bring your spaniel with you. He will watch that I
do not spring on you before you are ready," Lucas said, with a fine
sneer.

"And who is to watch me?"

"Oh, monsieur's chivalry is notorious. Precautions are unnecessary. It
is your privilege, monsieur, to appoint the happy spot."

"The spot is near at hand. Where you slew Pontou is the fitting place
for you to die."

"It is fitting for you to die in your own house," Lucas amended.

Without further parley we turned into the Rue des Innocents, on our way
to that of the Coupejarrets.

Now, I had been on the watch from the first instant for foul play. I had
suspected something wrong with the sword, but my lord, who knew, had
accepted it. Then, when Lucas proposed no seconds, I had felt sure of a
trap. But his inviting my presence at the place of our choice smelt like
honesty.

M. Etienne remarked casually to me:

"Faith, there'll soon be as many ghosts in the house as you thought you
saw there--Grammont, Pontou, and now Lucas. What ails you, lad?
Footsteps on your grave?"

But it was not thoughts of my grave caused the shudder, but of his. For
of the three men of the lightning-flash, the third was not Lucas, but M.
Etienne. What if the vision were, after all, the thing I had at first
believed it--a portent? An appearance not of those who had died by
steel, but of those who must. One, two, and now the third.

Next moment I almost laughed out in relief. It was not Pontou I had
seen, but Louis Martin. And he was living. The vision was no omen, but a
mere happening. Was I a babe to shiver so?

And yet Martin, if not dead, was like to die. He was in duress as a
Leaguer spy, to await King Henry's will. All who entered this house lay
under a curse. We should none of us pass out again, sa