"No, monsieur," laughed the young man.

"Pah!" exclaimed Bantison. "Let me question him. Now, fellow, a
confession may save you from jail. Do you deny you are Beaucaire?"

"Deny to a such judge?"

"Ha!" said Bantison. "What more do you want, Molyneux? Fellow, do you
deny that you came to London in the ambassador's suite?"

"No, I do not deny."

"He admits it! Didn't you come as his barber?"

"Yes, my frien', as his barber." Lady Mary cried out faintly, and,
shuddering, put both hands over her eyes.

"I'm sorry," said Molyneux. "You fight like a gentleman."

"I thank you, monsieur."

"You called yourself Beaucaire?"

"Yes, monsieur." He was swaying to and fro; his servants ran to support
him.

"I wish--" continued Molyneux, hesitating. "Evil take me!--but I'm
sorry you're hurt."

"Assist Sir Hugh into my carriage," said Lady Mary.

"Farewell, mademoiselle!" M. Beaucaire's voice was very faint. His eyes
were fixed upon her face. She did not look toward him.

They were propping Sir Hugh on the cushions. The Duke rode up close to
Beaucaire, but Francois seized his bridle fiercely, and forced the horse
back on its haunches.

"The man's servants worship him," said Molyneux.

"Curse your insolence!" exclaimed the Duke. "How much am I to bear from
this varlet and his varlets? Beaucaire, if you have not left Bath by
to-morrow noon, you will be clapped into jail, and the lashing you
escaped to-night shall be given you thrice tenfold!"

"I shall be-in the--Assemily--Room' at nine--o'clock, one week
--from--to-night," answered the young man, smiling jauntily, though
his lips were colorless. The words cost him nearly all his breath and
strength. "You mus' keep--in the--backgroun', monsieur. Ha, ha!" The
door of the coach closed with a slam.

"Mademoiselle--fare--well!"

"Drive on!" said Lady Mary.

M. Beaucaire followed the carriage with his eyes. As the noise of the
wheels and the hoof-beats of the accompanying cavalcade grew fainter in
the distance, the handkerchief he had held against his side dropped into
the white dust, a heavy red splotch.

"Only--roses," he gasped, and fell back in the arms of his servants.

Chapter Five

Beau Nash stood at the door of the rooms, smiling blandly upon a dainty
throng in the pink of its finery and gay furbelows. The great exquisite
bent his body constantly in a series of consummately adjusted bows:
before a great dowager, seeming to sweep the floor in august