vening?"

"I am at a loss to say," was the reply, "unless he is at the hospital,
which I understand he left this day."

"He is not here at the chateau, then?"

"Not at my invitation," tersely. "I will, however, undertake to find
him for you."

"I shall be grateful."

So the governor despatched an orderly, who returned within half an hour
with the information that Monsieur le Comte was waiting in the
citadel's parade. The marquis rose.

"Monsieur, my thanks; your Excellency will excuse me, as I have
something important to say to Monsieur d'Herouville."

It was only when the marquis was leaving the hall that the governor
noticed the basket-hilt of the old man's dueling sword. Its formidable
length disquieted his Excellency more than he would have liked to
confess.

It was early moonlight, and the parade ground was empty and ghostly.
The marquis glanced about. He discovered D'Herouville leaning against
a cannon, contemplating the escarps and bastions of the citadel. The
marquis went forward, striking his heels soundly. D'Herouville roused
himself and turned round.

"You are Monsieur le Comte d'Herouville," began the marquis, abruptly.

"I am," peering into the marquis's face, and stepping back in surprise.

"You come, I believe, from an ancient and notable house."

"Almost as notable as yours, Monsieur le Marquis," bowing in his
wonder, though this wonder was not wholly free from suspicion.

"Almost, but not quite," added the marquis. "The House of Perigny was
established some hundred and fifty years before royalty gave you a
patent. Your grandsire and your father were brave men."

"So history writes it," his puzzlement still growing.

"I wish a few words with you in private."

"With me?"

"With you."

"I suppose his Excellency has summoned me here for this purpose. But I
am in a hurry. The night air is not good for me, it being heavy with
dews, and I am out of the hospital only this day."

The marquis's grim laugh was jarring.

"You laugh, Monsieur?" patiently.

"Yes. I am never in a hurry."

"What is it you wish to say?"

"It is a question. Why do you hate Monsieur le Comte, my son?"

"Monsieur le Comte?" with frank irony.

"In all that the name implies. Some man has, over De Leviston's
shoulder, called my son a son of . . . the left hand." The words
seemed to skin the marquis's lips.

"And you, Monsieur," banteringly, "did you not make him so?"
D'Herouville began to under