ed he would!" Louis repeated desperately, as he
read the storm-signs that began to darken the Syndic's face.

"You told her then?"

"I could not do it myself! I could not indeed."

He cowered lower; but he fared better than he expected. The Syndic drew
a long fluttering breath, a breath of returning life, of returning hope.
The colour, too, began to come back to his cheeks. After all, it might
have been worse. He had thought it worse. He had thought himself
discovered, tricked, discomfited by the man against whom he had pitted
his wits, with his life for stake. Whereas--it seemed a small thing in
comparison--this meant only the inclusion of one more in the secret, the
running of one more risk, the hazarding another tongue. And the lad had
not been so unwise. She had easier access to the room than he, and ran
less risk of suspicion or detection. Why not employ her in place of the
lad?

The youth grovelling before him wondered to see him calm, and plucking
up spirit stood upright. "You must go back to her, and ask her to get it
for you," Blondel said firmly. "You can be back within the half-hour,
bringing it."

Louis began to shrink. His eyes sank. "She will not give it me," he
muttered.

"No?" Blondel, as he repeated the word, wondered at his own moderation.
But the shock had been heavy; he felt the effect of it. He was languid,
almost half-hearted. Moreover, a new idea had taken root in his mind.
"You can try her," he said.

"I can try her, but she will not give it me," Louis repeated with a new
obstinacy. As the Syndic grew mild he grew sullen. The change was in the
other, not in himself. Subtly he knew that the Syndic was no longer in
the mood to strike.

Blondel ruminated. It might be better, it might even be safer, if he saw
the girl himself. The story--of treason and a bottle--which had imposed
on his colleagues might not move her much. It might be wiser to attack
her on other grounds, grounds on which women lay more open. And
self-pity whispered with a tear that the truth, than which he could
conceive nothing more moving, nothing more sublimely sad, might go
farther with a woman than bribes or threats or the most skilful
inventions. He made up his mind. He would tell the truth, or something
like it, something as like it as he dared tell her.

"Very well," he said, "you can go! But be silent! A word to him--I shall
learn it sooner or later--and you perish on the wheel! You can go now. I
shall put the ma