André sat down on the stairs in the dark. It is perhaps not surprising that his first thoughts were of “No. 101.” Across his path had fallen for the second time the shadow of that baleful, blood-stained mystery. So far all who had tried to run the traitor to earth had failed; but when war and peace, the King’s policy and the destinies of France, hung in the balance success in the task meant a great reward. That masked woman in the wood had baffled him. Vanity, a passionate curiosity, the spell of the mystery, patriotism, once more united to kindle his longing to succeed where all had failed. But to attempt it alone or without money or information was out of the question. To invite the co-operation of his friends in this Versailles of intrigue and counter-intrigue, of jealousy and selfishness, spelled certain failure. With Madame de Pompadour’s help alone it might be done, but that was impossible, doubly impossible. Madame was right. A De Nérac, a Croix de St. Louis, and a Cordon Bleu could not enter the service of a bourgeoise favourite, here to-day and gone to-morrow, could not defy his class, the Queen and the Court, could not outrage his own dignity. Denise would spurn him for ever. Sacrifice his love? no, a thousand times no! Still less could he return now a suppliant for the Pompadour’s favours: she who had refused his aid; he who had scorned her offer. Yet—yes, yet with what delicacy and sympathy she had atoned for her apparent insolence. No woman, not Denise herself, could have shown her gratitude with more grace and conviction. An adventuress she was maybe, but a true woman for all that, and as charming as beautiful. Name of a dog! The faint perfume of that dainty handkerchief, which had made history, subtly recalled the intoxicating flattery of her eyes, the tender gratitude of her voice. The King—André laughed softly—the King was no fool when he was conquered by Antoinette d’Étiolles. And he had her key; well, he would see about that key.

His mind travelled to the thought of Denise. He had sworn to win her; he loved her, his beautiful Marquise de Beau Séjour, for was she not what the wife of a De Nérac should be—fair, noble, and pure? The scandalous tongues of the Court rendered her the homage of silence. She was the type to him of what France, the France for which he fought, could be. Did not there burn in her soul the inspiring flame of patriotism, duty, and high endeavour which she, as he, owed to her lineage and to God?

Well, well, to-morrow would bring counsel. He rose to grope his way to the locked door. Mon Dieu! What was this?

The door was opening stealthily. Some one was coming in. The King? Of course. André softly flew up the stairs and crouched in the folds of the curtain. If the King was coming to the Pompadour he was lost, but caught as he was in this dark corridor it was his only chance of concealment.

A light from a hand lamp flickered into the darkness. Ah! that was not the King’s step; nor did the King hum gay songs under his breath. Ho! ho! an adventure! Madame’s key was worth the owning after all.

As he lived, the Chevalier de St. Amant, a rose between his lips, hat cocked jauntily, his slim, boyish figure instinct with an abandoned grace. Pooh! he was the King’s private secretary and the royal key had been given him by his master for his own purposes. This was very interesting and mightily droll.

André drew a deep breath. The door at the top of the stairs at the other end of the passage had quietly opened. Some one with a lamp was standing awaiting the Chevalier. A woman! Yes, the light fell with a gleam on the folds of her dress, on the jewel on her breast. The gay young dog to use his royal master’s key in this way. What adorable audacity!

The woman held up the lamp with a familiar gesture. Denise! By God it was Denise!

One choking moment and then André turned stone-cold. Denise, his Denise! Mechanically he wiped the perspiration from his brow as he stared spellbound. Denise!

The Chevalier doffed his hat, kissed her hand, took the lamp from her, and once more André was alone in the darkness, gnawed by impotent and implacable rage, jealousy black and hot as hell.

But what did it mean—in heaven’s name what did it mean? And the Chevalier? Ah, if it had not been his Denise!

Only by the sternest self-control did he prevent himself from dashing after them. Pure madness, for that door was certainly locked. He must wait here if he waited till Doomsday. It seemed an eternity—in reality it was about half-an-hour—and then the Chevalier reappeared alone and still jauntily humming his song stealthily let himself out, ignorant, poor boy, that only a noble’s refusal to stab in cold blood like a common footpad had saved him from staining the floor of this dark corridor with his life’s blood.

Here was a fresh mystery. This cursed Versailles with its infamies and plots, its libertines and intriguers, its cabals, cliques, and conspiracies! “No. 101,” Yvonne, the crystal-gazer, Madame de Pompadour, war, treachery, and the Chevalier—in what cruel toils was his life set; but this last was the rudest shock of all. André could have cried aloud in sheer perplexity at the riddles that beset him on every side.

He took out the key. The touch of the cool steel on his feverish fingers sent a thrill through him. Ah! Madame had given him this key; she had ushered him out this way. He had wondered why. Because she was grateful? No. It was clear now—clear as daylight. She knew the secrets of this hateful corridor and she desired him to see for himself. Could it be possible? Yes, yes; it must be. A swift decision stormed into his mind.

Cautiously he let himself out. The public gallery was empty, but as he strode towards the stables he was startled to meet Denise hurrying to the Queen’s apartments.

“Ah,” he said, inspecting her closely, “tell me, if you please, where I can find the Chevalier de St. Amant?”

Denise gazed at his bronzed, inscrutable face with astonishment—or was it fear?

“I was informed,” André said carelessly, “that he had been seen in your company going towards the King’s apartments—a mistake, no doubt. The Chevalier is probably with His Majesty. It is a pity, for——”

“But the King,” Denise interrupted hastily, “is not in his private apartments; neither is the Chevalier there.”

André calmly studied her. “Ah, Mademoiselle,” he laughed, “I see you are well informed. I must seek the Chevalier elsewhere.” He turned away.

“And will you not tell me of what passed—” Denise had begun.

“I regret infinitely that I have pressing business, Mademoiselle. To-morrow, if you will be so kind,” and he smilingly bid her good-night.

Five minutes later he was galloping through the woods to “The Cock with the Spurs of Gold.” Something useful for his new resolve might possibly be learned there, and every clue would help now.

The inn that looked like a farmhouse buried in the woods wore as deserted an air as it had worn eighteen months ago, and in answer to his imperious knock there appeared the chambermaid with the shifty eyes, who stared in fear and surprise at this officer in his faded uniform and muddy boots who demanded entrance in the dark hours of the night.

“My mistress, the wise woman, is not here, sir,” she replied pettishly, half closing the door in André’s face.

“When will she be here?”

“Never again, Monsieur. She has left.”

André promptly pushed his way into the passage and closed the door. The girl uttered a suppressed shriek. “Are you of the police, sir?” she whimpered. “I know nothing, nothing; I swear it.”

“I am not of the police,” he said quietly. “I am a friend of your mistress. See that gold piece; you shall have it if you will tell me all you know.”

The girl looked slowly round. “I do not know where she is, my mistress,” she said. “Three days ago there came an English gentleman——”

“English?” he interrupted sharply.

“But yes. Madame said he was English. He saw her—he went away. Yesterday Madam left; she will come no more. She is gone, perhaps, to England. I do not know, I swear.”

André reflected. Yes, it was more than possible that “the princess” had returned to England.

“Do you know,” he demanded next, “why she left?”

“Because,” her voice dropped, “she feared the vengeance of the Marquise de Pompadour.”

André vividly recollected the scene when he had come to consult the crystal-gazer. The girl was not lying.

“And you know nothing more?”

“Nothing, Monsieur.”

She took the gold piece greedily. André had his foot in the stirrup when a thought struck him.

“Tell me,” he asked persuasively, “why you thought I was of the police?”

The girl beckoned him within and closed the door.

“Monsieur the superintendent of police has twice been here this week to inquire about my mistress,” she answered softly. “This very morning he was here. He would know everything would monsieur the superintendent. But he does not pay and he learned nothing, nothing, I swear.” She laughed knowingly.

André mounted and rode away. Fate was against him. Well, it could not be helped now. And the news of that English gentleman and the inquiries of the police were disquieting. What were English gentlemen doing at “The Cock with the Spurs of Gold” when England was at war with France? No wonder the police, the Marquise’s friend in particular, were prowling about so suspicious an inn. No wonder the crystal-gazer had taken to flight.

“Who is that?” cried a boyish voice. A galloping horse had suddenly pulled up beside André’s. “You, Vicomte, you! The very man that is wanted.”

André had at the sudden challenge whipped out his sword to defend himself. He now peered through the gloom.

“Chevalier, you!” he exclaimed in intense suspicion and annoyance.

“Yes, I, Chevalier de St. Amant. I am in luck. There’s the devil’s own business here.”

“What is it?” André demanded angrily. To be detected in this wood by the Chevalier, of all men, was maddening.

“Treachery,” said the Chevalier briefly.

“Treachery?”

St. Amant was excited. “I was on my way to Paris by the King’s orders to overtake a courier. I took the short cut through this wood; you know it doubtless. I hear a groan, I dismount, and there is the courier in the ditch, tied hand and foot, gagged too, poor devil, and his despatches gone.”

“Gone?” A shiver ran down André’s back.

“Clean as a whistle. The idiot had taken the short cut, too. As far as I can make out he was attacked from behind, stunned, and robbed. Will you help to bring the poor wretch back to Versailles, for I must go on to Paris?”

André sat appalled. “Of course,” he replied presently.

“This is the Vincennes affair over again,” the Chevalier remarked when they had unbound the courier and set him on André’s horse. “It is devilish this treachery, devilish and amazing.”

De Nérac nodded. He was in no mood to discuss anything with anybody just now, least of all with the Chevalier de St. Amant.

The young man had mounted. “I am very sorry,” he said, “that I cannot offer to accompany you, but the King’s orders were urgent and I am already late. Good-night, Vicomte.”

André bowed stiffly.

“If I might suggest,” the Chevalier added in the friendliest way, “it would be well to say nothing of this damnable business until the King has been informed in the morning.”

“I thank you,” André replied coldly. “I had already intended to wait until His Majesty had heard the story from your lips.”

“Good. I shall be back at dawn.” The Chevalier spurred away.

As De Nérac rode slowly back the Marquise’s words rang in his ears—“This is the second time in three months. There will be a third before long.” The third had already come, and as usual like a thief in the night. Confound “No. 101”! Confound the Chevalier de St. Amant!

He was in no mood to go to bed. He would walk in one of the galleries until he had eased himself of all the black thoughts and fears, until he could see a path through the thickets into which fate had plunged him.

A party of his friends was still playing at dice, and as André passed through the room they stared at his muddy riding boots in amused surprise.

“You have news?” cried the Comte de Mont Rouge.

“Yes,” André retorted curtly, “bad news which you will learn later.”

“What the devil has he been doing?” he heard St. Benôit exclaim as André sharply left the room.

“I will tell you,” Mont Rouge laughed. “He has already begun to do the dirty work of that grisette.”

“What do you mean?” St. Benôit demanded.

“She is going to make him master of her household.”

“De Nérac? Master of the Pompadour’s household? Impossible!” A dozen voices protested, and the dice-boxes ceased to rattle.

“Wait and you will see,” Mont Rouge’s cynical tones replied.

“Where and how did you learn this?” St. Benôit asked, aghast.

“The Comtesse des Forges told me,” Mont Rouge answered. “She is in the confidence of St. Amant, who as we all know is the King’s most confidential secretary.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, well!” André, who had caught his friend’s denial, halted involuntarily behind the door, picturing to himself Mont Rouge’s shrug of the shoulders. Well, it was only one more item in a long account, an account that would be settled some day.

“If it is true,” said the Abbé St. Victor, “that De Nérac has sold himself, he will be ruined when she is ruined. It is a pity, but he will deserve it.”

Ruined? André laughed the laugh of a reckless gambler staking his last piece. Ruined? They would see.