Lord Rupert yawned mightily, and heaved himself up in his chair.

“What do we do tonight?” he asked. “ ’Pon my soul, I’ve never been to so many balls in my life! It’s no wonder I’m worn out.”

“Oh, my dear Rupert, I am nigh dead with fatigue!” Fanny cried. “At least we have this one evening quiet! Tomorrow there is Madame du Deffand’s soirée.” She nodded to Léonie. “You will enjoy that, my love, I assure you. A few poems to be read, discussion, all the wit of Paris present⁠—oh, ’twill be a most amusing evening, I vow! There is no one who will not be there.”

“What, so we have respite today, have we?” said Rupert. “Now, what shall I do?”

“I thought you said you were worn out?” Marling remarked.

“So I am, but I can’t sit at home all the evening. What do you do?”

“Hugh and I are bound for de Châtelet’s, to visit Merivale. Will you accompany us?”

Rupert considered for a while.

“No, I believe I’ll go to this new gaming-house I hear tell of.”

Avon put up his glass.

“Oh? What, and where, is the novelty?”

“In the Rue Chambéry. It’s like to kill Vassaud’s if what they say is true. I’m surprised you’d not heard of it.”

“Yes, it is not in keeping with the part,” Avon said. “I believe I will go with you there this evening, child. It will not do for Paris to think I did not know of it.”

“What, will you all be out?” Fanny asked. “And I had promised to dine with my dear Julie! Léonie, I am sure that she will be pleased if you come with me.”

“Oh madame, I am so tired!” Léonie protested. “I would like to go to bed early tonight.”

Rupert stretched his long legs out before him.

“Tired at last!” he said. “Faith, I thought you’d never be wearied out!”

“My dearest life, I will tell the servants to take a tray to your room,” Fanny said. “You must not be tired tomorrow, for I am determined you shall come to Madame du Deffand’s soirée! Why, Condé is sure to be there!”

Léonie smiled rather wanly, and encountered Avon’s scrutiny.

“My infant, what has happened to trouble you?” he asked.

She opened wide her eyes.

“But nothing, Monseigneur! It is just that I have a touch of the migraine.”

“To be sure I am not surprised.” My lady shook her head wisely. “We have been abroad late every night this week. It is I who am at fault to have permitted it.”

“Oh, but madame, it has been fort amusant!” Léonie said. “I have enjoyed myself so much!”

“Egad, and so have I!” Rupert remarked. “It has been a mad two months, and I scarce know whether I am standing on my head or my heels. Are you off already, Hugh?”

“We are dining with de Châtelet at four,” Hugh explained. “I’ll say good night, Léonie. You’ll be abed when we return.”

She gave him her hand; her eyes were downcast. Both he and Marling kissed the slender fingers. Hugh made some joke to Rupert, and they went out.

“Do you dine at home, Justin?” asked my lady. “I must go change my gown, and order the light chaise to take me to Julie.”

“I will bear my infant company at dinner,” said Avon. “And then she shall go to bed. Rupert?”

“No, I’m off at once,” said Rupert. “I’ve a little matter to talk over with d’Anvau. Come, Fan!”

They went out together. Avon crossed over to the couch where Léonie sat, and tweaked one of her curls.

“Child, you are strangely silent.”

“I was thinking,” she said gravely.

“Of what, ma mie?”

“Oh, I shall not tell you that, Monseigneur!” she said, and smiled. “Let us⁠—let us play at piquet until it is time for dinner!”

So they played at piquet, and presently Lady Fanny came in to say good night, and was gone again in a minute, having adjured Léonie to be sure and retire to bed immediately after dinner. She kissed Léonie, and was surprised to receive a quick hug from her. Rupert went away with Fanny, and Léonie was left alone with the Duke.

“They are gone,” she said in a curious voice.

“Yes, child. What of it?” His Grace dealt the cards with an expert hand.

“Nothing, Monseigneur. I am stupid tonight.”

They played on until dinner was served, and then went into the big dining-room, and sat down together at the table. Avon soon sent the lackeys away, whereat Léonie gave a sigh of relief.

“That is nice,” she remarked. “I like to be alone again. I wonder whether Rupert will lose much money tonight?”

“We will hope not, infant. You will know by his expression tomorrow.”

She did not reply, but began to eat a sweetmeat, and did not look at his Grace.

“You eat too many sweetmeats, ma fille,” he said. “It’s no wonder you are growing pale.”

“You see, Monseigneur, I had never eaten any until you bought me from Jean,” she explained.

“I know, child.”

“So now I eat too many,” she added. “Monseigneur, I am very glad that we are alone together tonight, like this.”

“You flatter me,” he bowed.

“No. Since we came back to Paris we have hardly ever been alone, and I have wanted⁠—oh, many times!⁠—to thank you for being so very kind to me.”

He frowned down at the walnut he was cracking.

“I pleased myself, infant. I believe I told you once before that I am no hero.”

“Did it please you to make me your ward?” she asked.

“Evidently, ma fille, else I had not done so.”

“I have been very happy, Monseigneur.”

“If that is so it is very well,” he said.

She rose, and put down her napkin.

“I am growing more and more tired,” she said. “I hope Rupert wins tonight. And you.”

“I always win, child.” He opened the door for her, and went with her to the foot of the stairs. “I wish you a good night’s rest, ma belle.”

She dropped suddenly on one knee, and pressed his hand to her lips and held it there a moment.

“Merci, Monseigneur. Bonne nuit!” she said huskily. Then she rose again, and ran up the stairs to her chamber.

Her maid was there, agog with excitement. Léonie shut the door carefully, brushed past the girl, and flung herself on to the bed, and cried as though her heart would break. The abigail hovered over her, soothing and caressing.

“Oh, mademoiselle, why will you run away like this? Must we go tonight indeed?”

Downstairs the great front door shut; Léonie clasped her hands over her eyes.

“Gone! Gone! Ah, Monseigneur, Monseigneur!” She lay battling with her sobs, and presently rose, quiet and resolute, and turned to her maid. “The travelling-coach, Marie?”

“Yes, mademoiselle, I hired one this morning, and ’tis to await us at the corner of the road in an hour’s time. But it has cost you the best part of six hundred francs, mademoiselle, and the man did not like to start so late. We shall not reach farther than Chartres tonight, he says.”

“It’s no matter. I have enough money left to pay for everything. Bring me paper now, and ink. Are you sure⁠—are you sure that you wish to come with me?”

“But yes, mademoiselle!” the girl averred. “M. le Duc would be wroth with me an I let you go alone.”

Léonie looked at her drearily.

“I tell you we shall never, never see him again.”

Marie shook her head sceptically, but merely said that she had quite made up her mind to go with mademoiselle. Then she fetched ink and paper, and Léonie sat down to write her farewell.

Upon her return Lady Fanny peeped into Léonie’s room to see whether she slept. She held her candle high so that the light fell on the bed, and saw that it was empty. Something white lay upon the coverlet; she darted forward, and with a trembling hand held two sealed notes to the candlelight. One was addressed to herself; the other to Avon.

Lady Fanny felt suddenly faint, and sank down into a chair, staring numbly at the folded papers. Then she set her candle down upon the table, and tore open the note that was for her.

My Dear Madame, (she read)⁠—

I write this to say Fare Well, and Because I want to Thank you for your Kindness to me. I have told Monseigneur why I must go. You have been so very Good to me, and I Love you, and indeed, indeed I am sorry thatt I can only write to you. I shall never forget you.

Lady Fanny flew up out of her chair.

“Oh, good God!” she cried. “Léonie! Justin! Rupert! Oh, is no one here? Heavens, what shall I do?” Down the stairs she ran, and seeing a lackey by the door, hurried up to him. “Where’s mademoiselle? When did she go out? Answer me, dolt!”

“Madame? Mademoiselle is abed.”

“Fool! Imbecile! Where’s her maid?”

“Why, madame, she went out just before six, with⁠—Rachel, I think it was.”

“Rachel is in my chambers!” snapped her ladyship. “Oh, what in God’s name shall I do? Is his Grace returned?”

“No, Madame, not yet.”

“Send him to me in the library as soon as he comes in!” Lady Fanny commanded, and went there herself, and read Léonie’s note again.

Twenty minutes later his Grace entered.

“Fanny? What’s to do?”

“Oh, Justin, Justin!” she said on a sob. “Why did we leave her? She’s gone! Gone, I tell you!”

His Grace strode forward.

“Léonie?” he said sharply.

“Who else?” demanded my lady. “Poor, poor child! She left this for me, and one for you. Take it!”

His Grace broke the seal of his note, and spread out the thin sheet. Lady Fanny watched him while he read, and saw his mouth set hard.

“Well?” she said. “What does she write to you? For heaven’s sake tell me!”

The Duke handed the note to her, and went to the fire, and stared down into it.

Monseigneur⁠—

I have run away from you because I have discovered thatt I am not what you Think me. I told you a Lie when I said that Madame de Verchoureux had not Spoken to me the other Night. She told me thatt Every One knows I am a Baseborn daughter of Saint-Vire. It is Quite True, Monseigneur, for on Thursday I slipped out with my Maid, and went to his House, and asked him if it were indeed so. Monseigneur, it is not convenable thatt I stay with you. I cannot bear thatt I should bring Scandal to you, and I know thatt I must do this if I stay with you, for M. de Saint-Vire will say thatt I am his Bastard, and your Mistress. I do not want to go, Monseigneur, but it is best thatt I should. I tried to Thank you Tonight, but you would not let me. Please, you must not be anxious for me. I wanted at first to Kill myself, but then I saw thatt thatt is Cowardly. I am Quite Safe, and I am going very far away to Some One who will be good to me, I know. I have left all my Things, except the Money you gave me, which I must take to pay my journey, and the Sapphire Chain which you gave me when I was your Page. I thought you would not Mind if I took thatt, because it is the only thing I have kept which you gave me. Marie goes with me, and Please you must not be Angry with the lackeys for letting me go, for they thought I was Rachel. I leave for Rupert, and M. Davenant, and M. Marling, and Milor’ Merivale my so Great Love for them. And for you, Monseigneur. I cannot write it. I am Glad thatt we were Alone tonight.

Lady Fanny’s face worked for a minute, then she whisked out her handkerchief and cried into it, regardless of paint and powder. His Grace picked up the note, and read it through again.

“Poor little infant!” he said softly.

“Oh Justin, we must find her!” sniffed her ladyship.

“We shall find her,” he answered. “I think I know where she has gone.”

“Where? Can you go after her? Now? She is such a babe, and she has only a foolish abigail with her.”

“I believe that she has gone to⁠—Anjou.” His Grace folded the note and put it into his pocket. “She has left me because she fears to endanger my⁠—reputation. It is somewhat ironic, is it not?”

Lady Fanny blew her nose vigorously, and gave yet another watery sniff.

“She loves you, Justin.”

He was silent.

“Oh Justin, do you not care? I felt so certain that you loved her!”

“I love her⁠—too well to marry her, my dear,” said his Grace.

“Why?” Lady Fanny put away her handkerchief.

“There are so many reasons,” sighed his Grace. “I am too old for her!”

“Oh, fiddle!” said my lady. “I thought that maybe ’twas her birth you cavilled at.”

“Her birth, Fanny, is as good as yours. She is Saint-Vire’s legitimate daughter.”

Lady Fanny gaped at him.

“In her place he has put that clod you know as de Valmé. His name is Bonnard. I have waited too long, but I strike now.” He picked up a handbell, and rang it. To the lackey who came he said: “You will go at once to the Hôtel de Châtelet, and request M. Marling and M. Davenant to return at once. Ask Milor’ Merivale to accompany them. You may go.” He turned again to his sister. “What did the child write to you?”

“Only farewell!” Lady Fanny bit her lip. “And I wondered why she kissed me so sweetly tonight! Oh dear, oh dear!”

“She kissed my hand,” Avon said. “We have all been fools this day. Do not distress yourself, Fanny. I shall bring her back if I have to search the world for her. And when she comes she will come as Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire.”

“But I don’t understand how⁠—oh, here is Rupert! Yes, Rupert, I have been crying, and I do not care. Tell him, Justin.”

Avon showed his young brother Léonie’s letter. Rupert read it, exclaiming at intervals. When he came to the end he snatched his wig from his head, threw it upon the floor, and stamped on it, saying various things beneath his breath that made Lady Fanny clap her hands over her ears.

“If you don’t have his blood for this, Justin, I shall!” he said at last, picked up his wig, and put it on his head again. “May he rot in hell for a black scoundrel! Is she his bastard?”

“She is not,” said Avon. “She is his legitimate daughter. I have sent for Hugh and Marling. It is time that you all knew my infant’s story.”

“Left her love for me, bless her!” choked Rupert. “Where is she? Are we to set off at once? Only give the word, Justin, and I’m ready!”

“I do not doubt it, child, but we do not start today. I believe I know whither she has gone; she will be safe enough. Before I bring her back she shall be righted in the eyes of the world.”

Rupert glanced down at the letter in his hand.

“I cannot bear thatt I should bring Scandal to you,” he read. “Burn it, your life’s one long scandal! And she⁠—Devil take it, I could cry like a woman, so I could!” He gave the letter back to the Duke. “She’s made a cursed idol of you, Justin, and you’re not fit to kiss her little feet!” he said.

Avon looked at him.

“That I know,” he said. “My part ends when I bring her back to Paris. It is better so.”

“So you do love her.” Rupert nodded to his sister.

“I have loved her for a long time. And you, my son?”

“No, no, I’m no suitor of hers, I thank you! She’s a darling, but I’d have none of her to wife. It’s you she wants, and it’s you she’ll have, mark my words!”

“I am ‘Monseigneur,’ ” Avon replied with a crooked smile. “There is glamour attached to me, but I am too old for her.”

Then the others came in in a state of liveliest curiosity.

“What’s to do, Justin?” asked Hugh. “Has there been a death in the house?”

“No, my dear. Not a death.”

Lady Fanny sprang up.

“Justin⁠—she⁠—she would not have killed herself, and⁠—and said that in her letter so that you should not guess her intention? I never thought of that! Oh, Edward, Edward, I am so unhappy!”

“She?” Marling put an arm about Fanny. “Do you mean⁠—Léonie?”

“She has not killed herself, Fanny. You forget that she has her maid with her,” Avon said reassuringly.

Davenant shook him by the arm.

“Speak out, man, for God’s sake! What has happened to the child?”

“She has left me,” Avon said, and put Léonie’s note in his hand.

With one accord Merivale and Marling went to look over Hugh’s shoulder.

“God’s truth!” exploded Merivale, and clapped a hand to his sword-hilt as he read: “Oh, what a villain! Now, Justin, you shall have at him, and I’m with you to the death!”

“But⁠—” Marling looked up with puckered brows. “Poor, poor child, is it true?”

Hugh came to the end, and said huskily:

“Little Léon! ’Fore God, it’s pathetic!”

Rupert, at this juncture, relieved his feelings by throwing his snuffbox at the opposite wall.

“Oh, we’ll send him to hell between us, never fear!” he stormed. “Cur! Dastardly cur! Here, give me some burgundy, Fan! I’m in such a heat⁠—Swords are too good for the rogue, damme they are!”

“Much too good,” agreed his Grace.

“Swords!” Merivale exclaimed. “It’s too quick. You or I, Justin, could kill him in less than three minutes.”

“Too quick, and too clumsy. There is more poetry in the vengeance I take.”

Hugh looked up.

“But explain?” he begged. “Where is the child? What are you talking about? You have found a way to pay your debt in full, I suppose, but how have you found it?”

“Curiously enough,” said his Grace, “I had forgotten that old quarrel. You remind me most opportunely. The scales weigh heavily against M. de Saint-Vire. Give me your attention for one minute, and you shall know Léonie’s story.” Briefly, and with none of his accustomed suavity, he told them the truth. They listened in thunderstruck silence, and for some time after he finished, could find no words to speak. It was Marling who broke the silence.

“If that is true the man is the biggest scoundrel unhung!” he said. “Are you sure, Avon?”

“Perfectly, my friend.”

Rupert shook his fist, and muttered darkly.

“Good God, do we live in the Dark Ages?” cried Hugh. “It’s almost incredible!”

“But the proof!” Fanny cut in. “What can you do, Justin?”

“I can stake everything on the last round, Fanny. I am going to do that. And I think⁠—yes, I really think that I shall win.” He smiled unpleasantly. “For the present my infant is safe, and I believe I may put my hand on her when I wish.”

“What do you intend to do?” shouted Rupert.

“Oh yes, Justin, please tell us!” besought my lady. “It is so dreadful to know nothing. To have to sit idle!”

“I know, Fanny, but once more I must ask you all to be patient. I play my games best alone. One thing I may promise you: You shall be in at the death.”

“But when will it be?” Rupert poured out another glass of burgundy. “You’re too devilish tricky for me, Justin. I want a hand in the affair.”

“No.” Hugh shook his head. “Let Avon play his game to a close. There are too many of us to join with him, and there’s a proverb that says ‘too many cooks spoil the broth.’ I’m not usually bloodthirsty, but I do not want Saint-Vire’s broth to be spoiled.”

“I want to see him crushed,” said Merivale. “And that soon!”

“You shall, my dear Anthony. But for the present we will behave as ever. If any ask for Léonie she is indisposed. Fanny, did you say that Madame du Deffand gives a soirée tomorrow?”

“Yes, but I’ve not the heart to go,” sighed my lady. “It will be so brilliant too, and I did want Léonie to be there!”

“Nevertheless, my dear, you will go, with us all. Calm yourself, Rupert. Your part was played, and played well, at Le Havre. Now it is my turn. Fanny, you are tired out. Go to bed now; you cannot do anything yet.”

“I must go back to de Châtelet,” said Merivale. He gripped Avon’s hand. “Act up to your name now, Satanas, if ever you did! We are all with you.”

“Even I,” said Marling with a smile. “You may be as devilish as you please, for Saint-Vire is the worst kind of villain I have had the ill-luck to meet.”

Rupert, hearing, choked in the act of drinking his third glass of burgundy.

“Damme, I boil with rage when I think of him!” he swore. “Léonie called him pig-person, but ’fore Gad he’s worse than that! He’s⁠—!”

Fanny fled incontinently from the room.