nt. Not from his face. It was deeply
lined and sternly set, the eyes veiled by gathered brows, the mouth
harsh. But he breathed heavily, as a man breathes who has outrun his
lung power, and his uneasy fingers clenched and unclenched incessantly.
Those who knew Philip de Commines understood the signs and grew
watchful. But it was upon Villon that the storm fell.

"For an hour I have been searching for you--in the Chateau, in the
Chien Noir, in every tavern in Amboise----"

"And you find me amongst the roses! How little you know my nature,
Monsieur d'Argenton!"

"I know it better than I like it," answered Commines grimly. "You
lodge at the Chien Noir?"

"It has that honour. The cooking is passable, and I can commend to you
its wine of '63. Monsieur La Mothe drinks nothing else."

"As with a fool so with a drunkard, one may make many. But I am not
here to talk of Monsieur La Mothe's drinking bouts, though they explain
much. You are in the King's service?"

"As we all are; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. Yes."

"No quibble; you are paid to be faithful?"

"As we all are; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. Yes."

"Villon, curb your impertinences. I'll not endure them."

"Monsieur d'Argenton, there is a proverb which says, 'Physician, cure
thyself.' What did I tell you, Monsieur La Mothe? The five minutes
are not up yet." But Stephen La Mothe discreetly answered nothing.
One of the first lessons a man learns in the ways of the world is to
keep his fingers from between other men's millstones.

"You lodge at the Chien Noir," went on Commines, ignoring the retort;
"you are in the King's service and have been paid with your life. Why
are you not faithful? Under your very eyes a devilish scheme is
hatched and you see nothing. Are you a fool, or have you grown
besotted in your age? And you, Stephen, you who were given a free hand
in Amboise for this very thing, you who have spent your days in child's
play--Stephen, son"--with a sudden gesture Commines put his hand across
La Mothe's shoulder, drawing him almost into the hollow of his arm, and
the cold severity passed from the hard voice--"don't mistake me, don't
think I scoff at to-day's danger, to-day's courage. No. I thank God
you are safe, I thank God he has given me back my son Stephen; but what
am I to say to the King?"

"Ho! ho!" said Villon; "so it is son Stephen nowadays? Then the play
is almost played out?"

"Most of all I blame you," an