hanks to you," he continued, quietly, "I am not an assassin, I
am not a butcher of dogs. The De Nesvilles were never public
executioners--they left that to the Bonapartes and Monsieur de
Paris."

He rose hastily from his chair and held out a hand. Jack took it
warily and returned the nervous pressure. Then they both resumed
their seats.

"Let us clear matters up," said the marquis in a wonderfully
gentle voice, that would have been fascinating to more phlegmatic
men than Jack--"let us clear up everything and understand each
other. You, monsieur, dislike me; pardon--you dislike me for
reasons of your own. I, on the contrary, like you; I like you
better this moment than I ever did. Had you not come as I
expected, had you not entered, had you refused to mount to the
turret, I still should have liked you. Now I also respect you."

Jack twisted and turned in his chair, not knowing what to think
or say.

"Why do you dislike me?" asked the marquis, quietly.

"Because you are not kind to your daughter," said Jack, bluntly.

To his horror the man's eyes filled with tears, big, glittering
tears that rolled down his immovable face. Then a flush stained
his forehead; the fever in his cheeks dried the tears.

"Jack," he said, calling the young fellow by his name with a
peculiarly tender gesture, "I loved my son. My soul died within
me when Rene died, there on the muddy pavement of the Paris
boulevards. I sometimes think I am perhaps a little out of my
mind; I brood on it too much. That is why I flung myself into
this"--with a sweep of his arm towards the flasks and machinery
piled around. "Lorraine is a girl, sweet, lovable, loyal. But she
is not my daughter."

"Lorraine!" stammered Jack.

"Lorraine."

The young fellow sat up in his chair and studied the face of the
pale man before him.

"Not--your child?"

"No."

"Whose?"

"I cannot tell."

After a silence the marquis stood up, and walked to the window.
His face was haggard, his hair dishevelled.

"No," he said, "Lorraine is not my daughter. She is not even my
heiress. She was--she was--found, eighteen years ago."

The room was becoming lighter; the sky grew faintly luminous and
the mist from the stagnant fen curled up along the turret like
smoke.

Jack picked up his cap and riding-crop and rose; the marquis
turned from the window to confront him. His face was no longer
furrowed with pain, the cold light had crept back into his eyes.

"Monsieur," sai