ht; and where the other door had been before which I had many
times crossed swords with the red musketeer I saw a blank wall."

"It was no more than a very remarkable coincidence after all?" said
Bassett.

"On the contrary. I called to the man, a bent old fellow, his face
furrowed with age and heavy with care. 'Have you been long in the
service of the family?' I asked him. His eyes glistened tearfully.
'Forty-five years, monsieur,' he answered. 'Then perhaps you can tell
me if there was ever a door opening on the right, yonder, beside that
armchair?'

"He stared at me, Bassett, like a man dismayed, and his hand trembled so
that spots of grease were shaken from the candles on to the floor. 'How
can you know of the Duc's door?' he whispered, watching me all the time
as if fascinated. 'How can _you_ know of the Duc's door, monsieur?' His
fear, his consternation, were so evident, that I recognised the
necessity of reassuring him in order to learn more. Therefore, 'I have
heard of it, or seen it depicted, somewhere in England,' I replied; 'but
the story associated with it escapes my memory.'

"He began to look less frightened as I spoke, and finally, having
several times moistened his dry lips, he replied. 'It has been walled up
for more than two hundred years. It opened upon a staircase leading to
the State apartments.' 'And why was it closed, my friend?' I asked. The
old man shrugged his angular shoulders and moved on out of the room.
'That I cannot say, monsieur,' he answered: 'but in the reign of Louis
XIII, Henri, second Duc de Montmorency, by whose father this chateau was
built, escaped one night from the apartment in which he had been
imprisoned under sentence of death, and attempted to force his way into
the presence of the King, then lying in the chateau. At the foot of
those stairs the Duc was mortally wounded by Guitry, Captain of the
Bodyguard....'"

* * * * *

During lunch the conversation rarely became general. Bassett talked to
Yvonne, bestowing upon her an elderly admiration which was not lacking
in a poetry of its own, and Paul exchanged memories with Thessaly. His
mental excitement was tremendous, and contagious, but of the three who
listened to him Thessaly alone seemed to respond sympathetically.
Bassett had never pretended to understand his distinguished client. He
was always covertly watching Paul, his fat face wrinkled with
perplexity, as though one day he hoped fo