edge. Once there matters were easy, and in a trice I had passed
through the window.

CHAPTER XXII

THE TABLETS OF DOM ANTOINE DE MOUCHY

A quick glance around showed me I was alone. Turning back to the
window I swung the free end of the rope to La Marmotte. She caught it,
drew it in, and closed the window over it as far as it would go.
Through the slight opening I saw for an instant the glow of the candle.
Then the rope tightened, and the light went out. I crept softly to a
door on my right, and standing there listened intently. All was
silence. I tried the door; it opened, and I saw before me De Mouchy's
study. His table, littered with papers, was almost in the centre of
the room. Near the window was a large carved chest. The walls were
lined with books, and three or four bookcases, filled with dust-laden
volumes, projected at right angles from them. In truth, it seemed as
if Dom Antoine owned a library that might rival that of the Abbey of
St. Victor.

I made up my mind to go a step farther than La Marmotte's suggestion,
and as the chances of discovery were equal whether I remained in the
outer room or here I decided to stay where I was. Between the wall and
one of the projecting bookshelves there was space sufficient for a man
to stand perfectly concealed, unless anyone chose to come round the
bookcase. Here, then, I took up my position, trusting much to luck, as
one has to do in a desperate enterprise, and relying on the chance that
De Mouchy would never suspect that anyone would dare to act as I was
doing in broad daylight, for it was not much beyond five o'clock in the
afternoon.

I had not long to wait. Presently I heard a scratching at a door
opposite to that by which I had entered the room. There was a murmured
word or so, then the door opened, and Dom Antoine de Mouchy stepped in,
bearing in his arms an immense black cat. Where the afternoon sunlight
shone warmly on the carved chest he placed the beast, stroking its back
once or twice, and then turned, and stood for a moment facing his table.

As he stood there, in the black robes and skull-cap of a doctor of the
Sorbonne, I took careful stock of him, for it was he who, years past,
had doomed me to a frightful death, and who had shared with Simon and
Diane de Poitiers the remains of my property. He was past middle life,
with a frame yet strong and vigorous. Cruelty and avarice had set
their seals on his broad face. His cheek-bone