hould rise." Then, holding out a
paper, "Monsieur Stanislas de Marsac was here betimes this morning with
Mademoiselle his sister. He left this letter for you, monsieur."

Amaze and apprehension were quickly followed by relief, since Anatole's
words suggested that Marsac had not remained. I took the letter,
nevertheless, with some misgivings, and whilst I turned it over in my
hands I questioned the old servant.

"He stayed an hour at the chateau, monsieur," Anatole informed me.
"Monsieur le Vicomte would have had you roused, but he would not hear of
it. 'If what Monsieur de Saint-Eustache has told me touching your guest
should prove to be true,' said he, 'I would prefer not to meet him under
your roof, monsieur.' 'Monsieur de Saint-Eustache,' my master replied,
'is not a person whose word should have weight with any man of honour.'
But in spite of that, Monsieur de Marsac held to his resolve, and
although he would offer no explanation in answer to my master's many
questions, you were not aroused.

"At the end of a half-hour his sister entered with Mademoiselle. They
had been walking together on the terrace, and Mademoiselle de Marsac
appeared very angry. 'Affairs are exactly as Monsieur de Saint-Eustache
has represented them,' said she to her brother. At that he swore a most
villainous oath, and called for writing materials. At the moment of his
departure he desired me to deliver this letter to you, and then rode
away in a fury, and, seemingly, not on the best of terms with Monsieur
le Vicomte."

"And his sister?" I asked quickly.

"She went with him. A fine pair, as I live!" he added, casting his eyes
to the ceiling.

At least I could breathe freely. They were gone, and whatever damage
they may have done to the character of poor Rene de Lesperon ere they
departed, they were not there, at all events, to denounce me for an
impostor. With a mental apology to the shade of the departed Lesperon
for all the discredit I was bringing down upon his name, I broke
the seal of that momentous epistle, which enclosed a length of some
thirty-two inches of string.

Monsieur [I read], wherever I may chance to meet you it shall be my duty
to kill you.

A rich beginning, in all faith! If he could but maintain that
uncompromising dramatic flavour to the end, his epistle should be worth
the trouble of deciphering, for he penned a vile scrawl of pothooks.

It is because of this [the letter proceeded] that I have refrained from
co