ers; and followed up the clue to Cairo,
Athens, Syracuse, and Belgrade. It was at Constantinople I found
him at last--an officer--actually an officer in the Turkish army;
'Monsieur le Captaine,' my interpreter called him," the young man
added, with a fine scorn in his raised voice. "Imagine it! Well,
I gave him your letter, delivered the messages, and awaited his
pleasure. He kept me waiting for two days before he vouchsafed
one word of answer. On the third day he announced his intention of
accompanying me here. Nothing that I could say made any difference.
'His answer should be given to you in person, or not at all.' I
wrote to you three days before we started; that letter you never had.
Forgive me, father, for the shock! As for you," he continued, turning
abruptly towards the motionless figure at the foot of the bed, "I have
kept my word, and brought you here in safety, though no one in the
world will ever know how near I came to breaking it, and throwing you
into the Dardanelles. Ah! I was sorely tempted, I can tell you. Speak
your answer, and go! This is no place for you to linger in."

"Upon my word, you are courteous, very! But, my dear friend Martin,
as this is to be our farewell, I must really see you a little more
distinctly."

For the first time, the man in the long overcoat changed his position,
and came a little nearer to the bed. The movement showed him the
priest, kneeling with closed eyes and uplifted hands before an iron
crucifix.

"Ah! we are not quite alone then, Martin, _cher ami_! the gentleman in
the long robe appears to be listening."

"He is as dead," answered the man on the bed slowly. "He is a monk;
you can speak."

He raised himself slightly on the bed. One hand remained grasping his
despatch-box under the bed-clothes; the other was held by the young man
who knelt by his side. His face was curiously changed; all the effect
of his unlooked-for visitor's arrival seemed to have passed away. His
eyes were bright and eager. His white lips were closely set and firm.

"You can speak," he repeated.

His visitor was leaning over the foot of the bed now, and the smile
had quite gone, leaving his face cold and white. He spoke a little
quicker than before.

"Here is your answer, Martin de Vaux! You offer me a fortune, on
condition that I give up to you on your deathbed the power by which I
hold those whom you love, my slaves. Money is dear to me, as it is to
most men, but I would die sooner than