out."

"Oh, come," M. Etienne cried, "no shuffling, Peyrot. We know as well as
you where you were before dawn."

"Before dawn? Marry, I was sleeping the sleep of the virtuous."

M. Etienne slipped across the room as quickly as Peyrot's self might
have done, lifted up a heavy curtain hanging before an alcove, and
disclosed the bed folded smooth, the pillow undisturbed. He turned with
a triumphant grin on the owner, who showed all his teeth pleasantly in
answer, no whit abashed.

"For all you are a count, monsieur, you have the worst manners ever came
inside these walls."

M. le Comte, with no attempt at mending them, went on a tour about the
room, examining with sniffing interest all its furniture, even to the
dishes and tankards on the table. Peyrot, leaning against the wall by
the window, regarded him steadily, with impassive face. At length M.
Etienne walked over to the chest by the chimneypiece and deliberately
put his hand on the key.

Instantly Peyrot's voice rang out, "Stop!" M. Etienne, turning, looked
into his pistol-barrel.

My lord stood exactly as he was, bent over the chest, his fingers on the
key, looking over his shoulder at the bravo with raised, protesting
eyebrows and laughing mouth. But though he laughed, he stood still.

"If you make a movement I do not like, M. de Mar, I will shoot you as I
would a rat. Your side is down and mine is up; I have no fear to kill
you. It will be painful to me, but if necessary I shall do it."

M. Etienne sat down on the chest and smiled more amiably than ever.

"Why--have I never known you before, Peyrot?"

"One moment, monsieur." The nose of the pistol pointed around to me. "Go
over there to the door, you."

I retreated, covered by the shining muzzle, to a spot that pleased him.

"Now are we more comfortable," Peyrot observed, pulling a chair over
against the wall and seating him, the pistol on his knee. "Monsieur was
saying?"

Monsieur crossed his legs, as if of all seats in the world he liked his
present one the best. He had brought none of the airs of the noble into
this business, realizing shrewdly that they would but hamper him, as
lace ruffles hamper a duellist. Peyrot, treeless adventurer, living by
his sharp sword and sharp wits, reverenced a count no more than a
hod-carrier. His occasional mocking deference was more insulting than
outright rudeness; but M. Etienne bore it unruffled. Possibly he
schooled himself so to bear it, but I think rather