true," said Vigo, "for he was ready to kill the men who
barred his way."

"You were in a plot to kill my secretary!"

"Ah, Monsieur!" I cried.

"You--Felix Broux!"

I curled with shame.

"M. Lucas had struck me," I muttered; "I thought the fight was fair
enough. And they threatened my life."

Monsieur's contemptuous eyes shrivelled me as flame shrivels a leaf.

"You--a Broux of St. Quentin!"

Lucas, who had watched me close all the while, as they all three did,
said now:

"I believe he is a cheat, Monsieur. There is no plot. He has learned of
your plan through the eavesdropper he speaks of and thinks to make
credit out of a trumped-up tale of murder."

"No," answered Monsieur. "You may think that, Lucas, for he is a
stranger to you. But I know him. He was a fool sometimes, but he was
never dishonest. You used to be fond of me, Felix. What has happened to
make you consort with my enemies?"

"Ah, Monsieur, I love you. I have always loved you," I cried. "I am not
lying now, nor cheating you. There is a plot. I learned it and came
straight to you, though I was under oath not to betray them."

"Then, in Heaven's name, Felix," burst out Vigo, "which side are you
on?"

Monsieur began to laugh.

"That is what I should like to know. For, by St. Quentin, I can make
nothing of it."

"Monsieur," insisted Lucas, "whatever he was once, I believe him a
trickster now."

Monsieur bent his keen eyes on me.

"No; he is plainly in earnest. Therefore with patience I look to get
some sense out of this snarl of a story. Something is there we have not
yet fathomed."

"Will Monsieur let me speak?"

"I have done naught but urge you to do so for some time past," he
answered dryly.

"Monsieur, you know my father would not let me leave St. Quentin with
you, three months back. But at length he said I should come, and I
reached Paris last night and, since it was late, lodged at an inn. This
morning I came to your gate, but the guard would not let me enter. I was
so mad to see you, Monsieur, that when you drove out I sprang up on your
coach-step--"

"Ah," said Monsieur, a new light breaking in upon him, "that was you,
Felix? I did not know you; I was thinking of other matters. And Lucas
took you for a miscreant. Now I _am_ sorry."

If I had been a noble he could not have spoken franker apology. But at
once he was stern again. "And because my secretary took you in all good
faith for a possible assassin and struck you to