ce to face with the Marquis of Caylus, the old ogre whose
grim tyranny had been talked of even in Paris?

The shadow addressed as monseigneur answered, "I see no one," and the
voices of both the shadows were unfamiliar to the listener. But the voice
of the shadow that was saluted as monseigneur sounded like the voice of a
young man.

The leading shadow seemed to be peering into the darkness in front of
him. "I told them to place a sentinel," he said to his companion; and as
he spoke he caught sight of Lagardere, who must have looked as shadowy
to him as he looked to Lagardere, and he pointed as he added: "Yes, there
is some one there, monseigneur."

"Who is it?" the second shadow questioned, and again the voice sounded
youthful to Lagardere's ears.

"It looks like Saldagno," said the first shadow; and, coming a little
farther forward, he called dubiously into the gloom: "Is that you,
Saldagno?"

Now, as Saldagno was the name of one of the swordsmen who had met at the
Inn in menace of Nevers, Lagardere came to the swift conclusion that the
two shadows now haunting him had something to do with that conspiracy,
and that, if it were possible, it would be as well to learn their
purposes. He was, therefore, quite prepared to be Saldagno for the
occasion, and it was with a well-affected Lusitanian accent that he
promptly answered, "Present," and came a little nearer to the strangers.

The first shadow spoke again, craning a long neck into the darkness. "It
is I, Monsieur Peyrolles. Come here."

Lagardere advanced obediently, and the second shadow, coming to the side
of his companion, questioned him. "Would you like to earn fifty
pistoles?"

Although both the voices were strange to Lagardere, the voice of this
second shadow seemed to denote a person of better breeding than his
companion, a person accustomed to command when the other was accustomed
to cajole. Also, it was decidedly the voice of a young man. Whoever the
speaker might be, he certainly was not the crabbed old Marquis de Caylus.
Lagardere endeavored eagerly but unsuccessfully to see the face of the
speaker. Night had by this time fallen completely. The moat was as black
as a wolf's mouth, and the shadow that was muffled in a cloak held a
corner of it so raised that it would have concealed his visage if the
gorge had been flooded with moonlight.

"Who would not?" Lagardere answered, with a swagger which seemed to him
appropriate to a light-hearted assassin