“A page I had, my dear, by name—er—Léon.”

Her eyes sparkled, but she folded her hands demurely.

“Tiens! I wonder he dared, Monseigneur.”

“I believe there was nothing he would not dare,” said Avon.

“Truly? Did you like him, Monseigneur?”

“You are a minx, my dear.”

She laughed, blushed and nodded.

“It is not a compliment,” said his Grace, and came to the fire, and sat down. “I have sent for your duenna, you hear.”

“Yes.” She grimaced. “But she will not come till Monday, will she? Why are we going to Paris?”

“As well Paris as anywhere else,” Avon replied. “Your education is nearly complete. You are going to make your curtsy to the Polite World.”

“Am I, Monseigneur? Vraiment? I think it will be fort amusant. Shall I go to Vassaud’s?”

The Duke’s brows twitched together.

“No, ma fille, you will not. Vassaud’s is one of those places which you will strive to forget.”

Léonie peeped at him.

“And—and the Maison Chourval?”

“Did I take you there?” His Grace was still frowning.

“But yes, Monseigneur, only you sent me to wait for you in the vestibule.”

“I had that much decency left, then. You will most assuredly forget the Maison Chourval. It would be interesting to know what you made of it?”

“Very little, Monseigneur. It is not a nice place, I think.”

“No, infant, you are right. It is not a nice place, nor was I—nice—to take you there. That is not the world you shall enter.”

“Tell me!” begged Léonie. “Shall I go to balls?”

“Certainly, ma belle.”

“And will you dance with me?”

“My dear, there will be gallants enough to claim your hand. You will have no need of me.”

“If you will not dance with me I won’t dance at all,” she announced. “You will, Monseigneur, won’t you?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“I do not like perhaps,” she said. “Promise!”

“You are really very exigeante,” he complained. “I am past the age of dancing.”

“Eh bien!” Léonie tilted her chin. “Me, I am too young to dance. Nous voilŕ!”

“You, my infant,” said his Grace severely, “are a very naughty, wilful child. I do not know why I bear with you.”

“No, Monseigneur. And will you dance with me?”

“Quite incorrigible,” he murmured. “Yes, infant.”

A horse came clattering up the street, and paused at the inn-door.

“Monseigneur—do you think—is it—he?” Léonie asked nervously.

“It seems likely, my dear. The game begins.”

“I am not feeling—quite so brave, Monseigneur.”

He rose, and spoke softly.

“You will not disgrace yourself, or me, infant. There is naught to fear.”

“N-no, Monseigneur.”

The landlord entered.

“Monseigneur, it is M. le Docteur to see milor’.”

“How disappointing,” said his Grace. “I will come. Stay here, child, and if my very dear friend should come, remember that you are my ward, and behave with proper courtesy.”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” she faltered. “You will come back soon, won’t you?”

“Assuredly.” His Grace went out with a swish of silken skirts. Léonie sat down again, and regarded her toes. Overhead, in Rupert’s chamber, she heard footsteps, and the muffled sound of voices. These signs of the Duke’s proximity reassured her a little, but when again she heard the clatter of hoofs on the cobbled street some of the delicate colour left her cheeks.

“This time it is in very truth that pig-person,” she thought. “Monseigneur does not come—he wants me to play the game a little by myself, I think. Eh bien, Léonie, courage!”

She could hear Saint-Vire’s voice upraised in anger outside. Then came a quick, heavy tread, the door was flung open, and he stood upon the threshold. His boots were caked with mud, and his coat bespattered; he carried a riding-whip and gloves, and his cravat and hair were in disorder. Léonie looked at him in some hauteur, copying Lady Fanny’s manner to a nicety. For an instant it seemed that the Comte did not recognize her; then he came striding forward, his face dark with passion.

“You thought you had tricked me, madame page, did you not? I am not so easily worsted. I do not know where you obtained those fine clothes, but they avail you nothing.”

Léonie came to her feet, and let her eyes wander over him.

“M’sieur is in error,” she said. “This is a private room.”

“Very prettily played,” he sneered, “but I am no fool to be put off by those airs and graces. Come, where’s your cloak? I’ve no time to waste!”

She stood her ground.

“I do not understand you, m’sieur. This is an intrusion.” She rolled the word off her tongue, and was pardonably pleased with it.

The Comte grasped her arm, and shook it slightly.

“Your cloak! Quickly, now, or it will be the worse for you.”

Much of her icy politeness left Léonie.

“Bah! Take your hand away from my arm!” she said fiercely. “How dare you touch me?”

He pulled her forward, an arm about her waist.

“Have done! The game is up, my dear. You will do better to submit quietly. I shall not hurt you if you do as I say.”

From the doorway came the faint rustle of silk. A cool, haughty voice spoke.

“You mistake, m’sieur. Have the goodness to unhand my ward.”

The Comte jumped as though he had been shot, and wheeled about, a hand to his sword hilt. Avon stood just inside the room, quizzing-glass raised.

“Sacré mille diables,” swore Saint-Vire. “You!”

A slow and singularly unpleasant smile curved his Grace’s lips.

“Is it possible?” he purred. “My very dear friend Saint-Vire!”

Saint-Vire tugged at his cravat as though it choked him.

“You!” he said again. His voice was hardly above a whisper. “Are you in very truth your namesake? Even—here—I find you!”

Avon came forward. An elusive perfume was wafted from his clothes as he walked; in one hand he held a lace handkerchief.

“Quite an unexpected rencontre, is it not, Comte?” he said. “I have to present my ward, Mademoiselle de Bonnard. I believe she will accept your apologies.”

The Comte flushed dark, but he bowed to Léonie, who swept him a magnificent curtsy, and muttered a few incoherent words.

“No doubt you mistook her for someone else?” said his Grace urbanely. “I do not think you have met her before?”

“No. As m’sieur says—I mistook her—Mille pardons, mademoiselle.”

His Grace took snuff.

“Strange how one may be mistaken,” he said. “Likenesses are so inexplicable, are they not, Comte?”

Saint-Vire started.

“Likenesses . . . ?”

“You do not find it so?” His Grace drew a fan of lavender silk mounted on silver sticks from his pocket, and waved it languidly. “One wonders what can have brought the Comte de Saint-Vire to this unsophisticated spot.”

“I came on business, M. le Duc. One also wonders what can have brought the Duc of Avon here.”

“But business, dear Comte, business!” said Avon, gently.

“I come to retrieve some—property—I lost at—Le Havre!” said the Comte wildly.

“How singular!” remarked Avon. “I came on precisely the same errand. Our paths seem fated to—er—cross, my dear Comte.”

Saint-Vire set his teeth.

“Yes, m’sieur? On—on the same errand, you say?” He forced a laugh. “Singular indeed!”

“Quite remarkable, is it not! But, unlike yours, my property was stolen from me. I hold it in—er—trust.”

“Indeed, m’sieur?” The Comte’s mouth was unpleasantly dry, and it was evident that he was at a loss to know what to say.

“I trust, dear Comte, that you have found your property?” Avon’s tone was silky.

“Not yet,” Saint-Vire answered slowly.

His Grace poured out the third glass of wine, and offered it to him. Mechanically the Comte accepted it.

“Let us hope that I may be able to restore it to you,” said his Grace, and sipped meditatively at his wine.

Saint-Vire choked.

“M’sieur?”

“I shall spare no pains,” continued his Grace. “The village is not a large hunting-ground, to be sure. You know that it is here, I suppose?”

“Yes—no—I do not know. It is not worth your trouble, m’sieur.”

“Oh, my dear Comte!” protested his Grace, “if it is worth so much endeavour—” his eyes flickered to those mud-caked boots—“so much endeavour on your part, I am sure it is also worth my attention.”

The Comte seemed to choose his words carefully.

“I have reason to think, m’sieur, that it is one of those jewels that contain—a flaw.”

“I trust not,” answered Avon. “So it was a jewel? Now that which was stolen from me is in the nature of a weapon.”

“I hope you have had the good fortune to find it,” said Saint-Vire, goaded, but holding fast to his self-control.

“Yes, my dear Comte, yes. Chance favours me nearly always. Strange. Let me assure you that I shall do my utmost to restore your—jewel, I think you said it was?—your jewel to you.”

“It—is not likely that you will find it,” said Saint-Vire, between his teeth.

“You forget the element of Chance, dear Comte. I am a great believer in my luck.”

“My property can hardly interest you, M. le Duc.”

“On the contrary,” sweetly replied his Grace, “it would afford me great pleasure to be able to assist you in the matter.” He glanced towards Léonie, who stood by the table, listening with a puzzled frown to the quick give and take of words. “I have quite a happy—shall we say, knack?—of finding lost—er—property.”

Saint-Vire turned livid. His hand shook as he raised his glass to his lips. Avon regarded him in exaggerated concern.

“My dear Comte, surely you are unwell?” Again his eyes went to Saint-Vire’s boots. “You must have come a long way, dear Comte,” he said solicitously. “No doubt you are sadly fatigued.”

The Comte spluttered and set down his glass with a snap.

“As you say. I—I am not entirely myself. I have been suffering from a—slight indisposition, which has confined me to my room for these last three days.”

“It is really most remarkable,” marvelled his Grace. “My brother—I think you know him? Yes, quite so,—is at this very moment above-stairs, also suffering from a slight indisposition. I fear there must be something unhealthy in the air of this place. You find it a trifle sultry, perhaps?”

“Not at all, m’sieur!” snarled Saint-Vire.

“No? These annoying disorders, I believe, have a way of overtaking one in any climate.”

“As my lord Rupert found,” said Saint-Vire harshly. “I trust his—indisposition has not given him a distaste for my country.”

“Quite the reverse,” said his Grace blandly. “He is agog to proceed to Paris. He and I, dear Comte, believe firmly in that old remedy: the hair of the dog.”

The veins stood out on Saint-Vire’s forehead.

“Indeed? It is to be hoped that my lord does not act rashly.”

“You must not be concerned for him, dear Comte. I stand—as it were—behind him, and I have a wonderfully cool head. So they tell me. But you—ah, that is another matter! You must have a care to yourself, Comte. Let me implore you to relinquish your—search—until you are more yourself.”

Saint-Vire’s hand clenched.

“You are too good, m’sieur. My health is not your concern.”

“You mistake, dear Comte. I take a most lively interest in your—er—health.”

“I believe I shall do very well, m’sieur. My complaint is not so serious, I am glad to say.”

“Nevertheless, my dear Comte, it is always well to proceed cautiously, is it not? One never knows when these trifling ailments may not grow suddenly to quite large proportions. I have known a mere chill creep to the lungs, and strike a man down in the very prime of life.” He smiled pleasantly upon the Comte, who sprang suddenly to his feet, overturning his chair.

“Curse you, you’ve no proof!” he cried.

Up went his Grace’s brows. His eyes mocked.

“I assure you, dear Comte, I have known such a case.”

Saint-Vire pulled himself together with an effort.

“It will not happen—to me, I think,” he said thickly.

“Why, we will hope not,” agreed the Duke. “I believe that no one is—struck down—before the appointed hour.”

The Comte groped for his whip, and stood wrenching the lash between his hands.

“With your permission, m’sieur, I will leave you. I have wasted enough time already. Mademoiselle, your servant!” He spat the words out, snatched up his gloves, and went blindly to the door.