The Marlings came early to Madame du Deffand’s house, and were followed shortly by Merivale and Hugh Davenant. Madame du Deffand wanted to know what had become of Léonie, and was informed that she was indisposed, and had remained at home. Rupert presently arrived in company with d’Anvau and Lavoulère, and was twitted by several people, Madame du Deffand included, on his appearance at such a function.

“Doubtless you are come to read us a madrigal or a rondeau,” Madame teased him. “Faites voir, milor’, faites voir!”

“I? No, b’Gad!” Rupert said. “I’ve never written a verse in my life! I’m come to listen, madame.”

She laughed at him.

“You will be so bored, my poor friend! Bear with us!” She moved away to greet a fresh arrival.

Under the wail of the violins which played at one end of the room, Merivale spoke to Davenant.

“Where’s Avon?”

Hugh shrugged.

“I’ve scarce set eyes on him all day. He starts for Anjou immediately after this party.”

“Then he means to strike tonight.” Merivale looked round. “I saw Armand de Saint-Vire a moment ago. Is the Comte here?”

“Not yet, I think, but I am told that both he and his wife are coming. Justin will have a large audience.”

The rooms were filling speedily. Merivale presently heard a footman announce Condé. Behind the Prince came the Saint-Vires, and the Marchérands, and the Duc and the Duchesse de la Roque. A young exquisite approached Fanny and demanded Mademoiselle de Bonnard. On being told that she was not present his face fell considerably, and he confided mournfully to my lady that he had written a madrigal to Léonie’s eyes which he had intended to read tonight. My lady commiserated him, and turned to find Condé at her elbow.

“Madame!” he bowed. “But where is la petite?”

Lady Fanny repeated Léonie’s excuses, and was requested to bear a graceful message to her charge. Then Condé moved away to join in a game of bouts-rhymés, and the wail of the violins died down to a murmur.

It was just as Madame du Deffand had called upon M. de la Douaye to read his latest poems that some slight stir arose by the door, and his Grace of Avon came in. He wore the dress he had once worn in Versailles, cloth of gold, shimmering in the candlelight. A great emerald in the lace at his throat gleamed balefully, another flashed on his finger. At his side was a light dress sword; in one hand he carried his scented handkerchief, and a snuffbox studded with tiny emeralds, and from one wrist hung a fan of painted chicken-skin mounted upon gold sticks.

Those who were near the door drew back to let him pass, and for a moment he stood alone, a tall, haughty figure, dwarfing the Frenchmen about him. He was completely at his ease, even a little disdainful. He raised his quizzing glass, and swept a glance round the room.

“By Gad, he’s a magnificent devil, ’pon my soul he is!” said Rupert to Merivale. “Damme if I’ve ever seen him look more regal!”

“What a dress!” said Fanny, in her husband’s ear. “You cannot deny, Edward, that he is truly handsome.”

“He has a presence,” conceded Marling.

Avon went forward across the room, and bowed over his hostess’s hand.

“Late as usual!” she scolded him. “Oh, and you still have a fan, I see! Poseur! You are just in time to hear M. de la Douaye read to us his poems.”

“The luck always favours me, madame,” he said, and inclined his head to the young poet. “May we beg m’sieur to read us his lines addressed to the Flower in her Hair?”

La Douaye flushed with pleasure, and bowed.

“I am honoured that that so poor trifle should still be remembered,” he said, and went to stand before the fireplace with a roll of papers in his hand.

His Grace crossed slowly to the Duchesse de la Roque’s couch, and sat down beside her. His eyes flickered to Merivale’s face, and from thence to the door. Unostentatiously Merivale linked his arm in Davenant’s and moved with him to a sofa that stood by the door.

“Avon makes me feel nervous,” murmured Davenant. “An impressive entrance, a striking dress, and that in his manner that sends a chill down one’s back. You feel it?”

“I do. He means to hold the stage tonight.” Merivale spoke lower still, for La Douaye’s liquid voice sounded in the first line of his poem. “He sent me to sit here. If you can catch Rupert’s eye signal to him to go to the other door.” He crossed his legs, and fixed his attention on La Douaye.

A storm of applause greeted the verses. Davenant craned his neck to see where Saint-Vire was, and caught a glimpse of him by the window. Madame de Saint-Vire was at some distance from him, and several times she looked across at him with wide apprehensive eyes.

“If Saint-Vire’s seen that Léonie’s not here he’ll be feeling that chill down his back too, methinks,” said Merivale. “I wish I knew what Avon means to do. Look at Fanny! Egad, Avon’s the only one of us who’s at his ease!”

La Douaye began to read again; followed praise, and elegant discussion. Avon complimented the poet, and moved away to the adjoining salon where some were still playing at bouts-rhymés. In the doorway he met Rupert. Merivale saw him pause for an instant, and say something. Rupert nodded, and lounged over to the two by the main door. He leaned over the back of the couch, and chuckled gleefully.

“Mysterious devil, an’t he?” he said. “I’ve orders to watch the other door. I’m agog with excitement, stap me if I’m not! Tony, I’ll lay you a monkey Justin wins this last round!”

Merivale shook his head.

“I’ll not bet against a certainty, Rupert,” he said. “Before he came I was assailed by doubts, but faith, the sight of him is enough to end them! The sheer force of his personality should carry the day. Even I feel something nervous. Saint-Vire, with the knowledge of his own guilt, must feel a thousand times more so. Rupert, have you any idea what he means to do?”

“Devil a bit!” answered Rupert cheerfully. He lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you something, though. This is the last soirée I’ll attend. Did you hear that fellow mouthing out his rhymes?” He shook his head severely. “Y’know it ought not to be allowed. An undersized little worm like that!”

“You’ll agree that he is something of a poet nevertheless?” smiled Hugh.

“Poet be damned!” said Rupert. “He’s walking about with a rose in his hand! A rose, Tony!” He snorted indignantly, and saw to his horror that a portly gentleman was preparing to read an essay on Love. “God save us all, who’s this old Turnip-Top?” he demanded irreverently.

“Hush, child!” whispered Lavoulère, who was standing near by. “It is the great M. de Foquemalle!”

M. de Foquemalle began to roll forth impressive periods. Rupert edged along the wall towards the smaller salon, with a look of comical dismay on his face. He came upon the Chevalier d’Anvau, who pretended to bar his passage.

“What, Rupert?” The Chevalier’s shoulders shook. “Whither away, mon vieux?”

“Here, let me pass!” whispered Rupert. “Damme if I can stand this! The last one kept snuffing at a rose, and this old ruffian’s got a nasty look in his eye which I don’t like. I’m off!” He winked broadly at Fanny, who was sitting with two or three ladies in the middle of the room, soulfully regarding M. de Foquemalle.

In the other salon Rupert found an animated party gathered about the fire. Condé was reading his stanza amid laughter, and mock applause. A lady beckoned to Rupert.

“Come, milor’, and join us! Oh, is it my turn to read?” She picked up her paper and read out her lines. “There! It goes not well when one has heard M. le Duc’s verse, I fear. Do you leave us, Duc?”

Avon kissed her hand.

“My inspiration fails, madame. I believe I must go speak with Madame du Deffand.”

Rupert found a seat beside a lively brunette.

“Take my advice, Justin, and keep away from the other room. There’s an ill-favoured old rascal reading an essay on Love, or some such nonsense.”

“De Foquemalle, I’ll lay a pony!” cried Condé, and went to peep through the doorway. “Shall you brave it, Duc?”

M. de Foquemalle came at last to his peroration; Madame du Deffand headed the compliments that showered upon him; de Marchérand started a discussion on M. de Foquemalle’s opinions. A lull fell presently, and lackeys came in with refreshments. Learned arguments gave way to idle chatter. Ladies, sipping negus and ratafie, talked of toilettes, and the new mode of dressing the hair; Rupert, near the door he guarded, produced a dice-box, and began surreptitiously to play with a few intimates. His Grace strolled over to where Merivale stood.

“More commands?” inquired my lord. “I see Fanny has Madame de Saint-Vire in close conversation.”

His Grace waved his fan languidly to and fro.

“But one more command,” he sighed. “Just keep our amiable friend away from his wife, my dear.” He passed on to speak to Madame de Vauvallon, and was presently lost in the crowd.

Lady Fanny was complimenting Madame de Saint-Vire on her gown.

“I declare, that shade of blue is positively ravishing!” she said. “I searched the town for just such a taffeta not so long ago. La, there is that lady in puce again! Pray who may she be?”

“It is⁠—I believe it is Mademoiselle de Cloué,” Madame replied. The Vicomte de Valmé came up. “Henri, you have seen your father?”

“Yes, madame, he is with de Châtalet and another, over there.” He bowed to Fanny. “It is Milor’ Merivale, I think. Madame, may I be permitted to fetch you a glass of ratafie?”

“No, I thank you,” said my lady. “Madame, my husband!”

Madame gave her hand to Marling. Up came Madame du Deffand.

“Now, where is your brother, Lady Fanny? I have asked him to entertain us with some of his so amusing verses, and he says that he has another form of entertainment for us!” She rustled on, looking for Avon.

“Is Avon to read us his verses?” asked someone nearby. “He is always so witty! Do you remember the one he read at Madame de Marchérand’s rout last year?”

A gentleman turned his head.

“No, not verse this time, d’Orlay. I heard d’Aiguillon say that it was to be some kind of story.”

“Tiens! What will he be at next, I wonder?”

Young de Chantourelle came up with Mademoiselle de Beaucour on his arm.

“What’s this I hear of Avon? Is it a fairy tale he means to tell us?”

“An allegory, perhaps,” suggested d’Anvau. “Though they are not now in fashion.”

Madame de la Roque gave him her wineglass to take away. “It is so strange to tell us a story,” she remarked. “If it were not Avon one would go away, but since it is he one stays, full of curiosity. Here he comes!”

His Grace made his way across the room with Madame du Deffand. People began to seat themselves, and those gentlemen who could find no chairs ranged themselves along the wall, or stood in small groups by the doors. Out of the tail of her eye Lady Fanny saw Saint-Vire seated in a small alcove near the window, with Merivale perched on the edge of a table beside him. Madame de Saint-Vire made a movement as though to get to him. Lady Fanny took her arm affectionately.

“My dear, do sit with me! Now where shall we go?” Avon was at her side.

“You lack a chair, Fanny? Madame, your most devoted servant!” He raised his eyeglass, and beckoned to a lackey. “Two chairs for mesdames.”

“There is not the need,” said Madame hurriedly. “My husband will give me his⁠—”

“Oh no, madame, you must not leave me thus alone!” said Fanny gaily. “Ah, here are chairs! I vow we have the best place in the room!” She whisked Madame into a spindle-legged chair that had been brought by the lackey, so that she sat by the fireplace, to one side, able to see the room, and to be seen by nearly everyone. On the same side, but withdrawn a little into the alcove, her husband sat, and could only see her profile. She turned to look at him imploringly; he sent her a warning glance, and set his teeth. Merivale swung one leg gently, and smiled across at Davenant, leaning against the doorpost.

Madame du Deffand settled herself beside a small table, and laughed up at Avon.

“Now, my friend, let us hear your fairy tale! I hope it is exciting?”

“Of that, madame, I shall leave you to judge,” Avon replied. He took up his stand before the fire, and opened his snuffbox, and helped himself delicately to a pinch of snuff. The firelight and the candlelight played upon him; his face was inscrutable, except that the strange eyes held a mocking gleam.

“There’s something afoot, I’ll swear!” d’Anvau confided to his neighbour. “I mislike that look on our friend’s face.”

His Grace shut his snuffbox, and flicked a speck of snuff from one great cuff.

“My story, madame, begins as all good stories should,” he said, and though he spoke softly his voice carried through the room. “Once upon a time⁠—there were two brothers. I have forgotten their names, but since they detested each other, I will call them Cain and⁠—er⁠—Abel. I have no idea whether the original Abel detested the original Cain, and I beg that no one will enlighten me. I like to think that he did. If you ask me whence sprang this hatred between the brothers I can only suggest that it may have originated in the heads of each. Their hair was so fiery that I fear some of the fire must have entered into the brain.” His Grace spread open his fan, and looked serenely down into Armand de Saint-Vire’s face of dawning wonderment. “Quite so. The hatred grew and flourished until I believe there was nothing one brother would not do to spite the other. It became a veritable obsession with Cain, a madness that recoiled on him in the most disastrous manner, as I shall show you. My tale is not without a moral, you will be relieved to hear.”

“What in the world does all this mean?” whispered Lavoulère to a friend. “Is it a fairy tale, or does something lie behind?”

“I don’t know. How does he manage to hold his audience so still, I wonder?”

His Grace went on, speaking very slowly and dispassionately.

“Cain, being the elder of these two brothers, succeeded in due course to his father, who was a Comte and went the way of all flesh. If you imagine that the enmity now subsided between him and Abel, I beg you will permit me to disabuse your minds of so commonplace a thought. Cain’s succession but added fuel to the fire of hatred, and whereas our friend Abel was consumed of a desire to stand in his brother’s shoes, Cain was consumed of a like desire to keep him out of them. A situation fraught with possibilities, you perceive.” He paused to survey his audience; they watched him in mingled bewilderment and curiosity. “With this life-ambition in view, then, our single-minded friend Cain took a wife unto himself, and doubtless thought himself secure. But Fate, capricious jade, evidently disliked him, for the years went by, and still there came no son to gladden Cain’s heart. You conceive the chagrin of Cain? Abel, however, grew more and more jubilant, and I fear he did not hesitate to make⁠—er⁠—a jest of his brother’s ill-luck. It was perhaps unwise of him.” His Grace glanced at Madame de Saint-Vire, who sat rigid, and very pale, beside Lady Fanny. His Grace began to wave his fan rhythmically to and fro. “I believe Cain’s wife presented him once with a stillborn child. It began to seem unlikely that Cain would realise his ambition, but contrary to Abel’s expectations, Madame le Comtesse raised her husband’s hopes once more. This time Cain determined that there should be no mistake. Possibly he had learned to mistrust his luck. When madame’s time was upon her he carried her off to his estates, where she was delivered of⁠—a daughter.” Again he paused, and looked across the room at Saint-Vire. He saw the Comte cast a furtive glance towards the door, and colour angrily at sight of Rupert lounging there. His Grace smiled, and swung his eyeglass on its ribbon. “Of a daughter. Now observe the cunning of Cain. On his estate, possibly in his employ, there dwelt a farm-labourer, as I judge, whose wife had just presented him with a second son. Fate, or Chance, thus set a trap for Cain, into which he walked. He bribed this peasant to give him his lusty son in exchange for his daughter.”

“But what infamy!” exclaimed Madame de Vauvallon comfortably. “You shock me, Duc!”

“Strive to bear with me, madame. There is always the moral. This exchange, then, was effected, none being the wiser save the parents of each child, and of course the midwife who attended Madame la Comtesse. What became of her I do not know.”

“Mon Dieu, what a tale!” remarked Madame du Deffand. “I so dislike these villains!”

“Go on, Justin!” said Armand sharply. “You interest me extraordinarily!”

“Yes, I thought that I should,” nodded his Grace pensively.

“What became of⁠—Cain’s daughter?”

“Patience, Armand. Let us first dispose of Cain and his supposed son. Cain presently brought his family back to Paris⁠—did I tell you that this tale takes place in France?⁠—leaving instructions that his daughter’s foster-father was to leave his estates for some remote spot, unknown to anyone, including himself. In Cain’s place I think I should not have desired so ardently to lose all trace of the child, but no doubt he acted as he thought wisest.”

“Duc,” interposed Madame de la Roque, “it is inconceivable that any mother could consent to such a wicked plan!”

Madame de Saint-Vire held her handkerchief to her mouth with one shaking hand.

“Almost inconceivable,” Avon said gently. “Probably the lady feared her husband. He was a most unpleasant person, believe me.”

“We can easily believe that,” Madame smiled. “A villainous creature! Go on!”

From under his heavy lids Avon watched Saint-Vire tug at his cravat; his eyes travelled on to Merivale’s intent countenance, and he smiled faintly.

“Cain, and his wife, and his pretended son, returned to Paris, as I have said, and greatly discomposed poor Abel. When Abel watched his nephew grow up with no trace of his family’s characteristics either in face or nature, he was more than ever enraged, but although he wondered at the boy the truth never occurred to him. Why should it?” Avon shook out his ruffles. “Having disposed of Cain for the moment, we will return to Cain’s daughter. For twelve years she remained in the heart of the country, with her foster-parents, and was reared as their own child. But at end of those years Fate once more turned her attention to Cain’s affairs, and sent a plague to sweep the neighbourhood where his daughter was. This plague struck down both foster-father and mother, but my heroine escaped as did also her foster-brother, of whom more anon. She was sent to the Curé of the village, who housed her, and cared for her. I beg you will not forget the Curé. He plays a small but important part in my story.”

“Will it serve?” Davenant muttered.

“Look at Saint-Vire!” Marling answered. “The Curé was an inspiration! It has taken him completely by surprise.”

“We shall remember the Curé,” said Armand grimly. “When does he play his part?”

“He plays it now, Armand, for it was into his hands that my heroine’s foster-mother, before she died, placed her⁠—written⁠—confession.”

“Oh, she could write, then, this peasant woman?” said Condé, who had been listening with knit brows.

“I imagine, Prince, that she had once been tirewoman to some lady, for certainly she could write.” Avon saw Madame de Saint-Vire’s hands grip together in her lap, and was satisfied. “That confession lay for many years in a locked drawer in the Curé’s house.”

“But he should have published it abroad!” Madame de Vauvallon said quickly.

“So I think, madame, but he was a singularly conscientious priest and he held that the seal of the confessional could never be broken.”

“What of the girl?” asked Armand.

His grace twisted his rings.

“She, my dear Armand, was taken to Paris by her foster-brother, a youth many years her senior. His name was Jean, and he bought a tavern in one of the meanest and most noisome of your streets. And since it was inconvenient for him to have a girl of my heroine’s tender years upon his hands, he dressed her as a boy.” The gentle voice grew harder. “As a boy. I shall not discompose you by telling you of her life in this guise.”

Something like a sob broke from Madame de Saint-Vire.

“Ah, mon Dieu!”

Avon’s lips sneered.

“It is a harrowing tale, is it not, madame?” he purred.

Saint-Vire half rose from his chair, and sank back again. People were beginning to look questioningly at one another.

“Further,” continued the Duke, “he married a slut whose care was to ill-use my heroine in every conceivable way. At this woman’s hands she suffered for seven long years.” His eyes wandered round the room. “Until she was nineteen,” he said. “During those years she learned to know Vice, to Fear, and to know the meaning of that ugly word Hunger. I do not know how she survived.”

“Duc, you tell us a ghastly tale!” said Condé. “What happened then?”

“Then, Prince, Fate stepped in again, and cast my heroine across the path of a man who had never had cause to love our friend Cain. Into this man’s life came my heroine. He was struck by her likeness to Cain, and of impulse he bought her from her foster-brother. He had waited for many years to pay in full a debt he owed Cain; in this child he saw a possible means to do so, for he too had remarked the plebeian manners and person of Cain’s supposed son. Chance favoured him, and when he flaunted my heroine before Cain’s eyes he saw Cain’s consternation, and slowly pieced the tale together. Cain sent an envoy to buy his daughter from this man whom he knew to be his enemy. Thus the suspicion that this new player in the game fostered grew to be a conviction.”

“Good God, d’Anvau,” murmured de Sally, “can it be⁠—?”

“H’sh!” d’Anvau answered. “Listen! This grows very interesting.”

“From Jean,” Avon continued, “Cain’s enemy learned of my heroine’s old home, and of the Curé who lived there. I trust you have not forgotten the Curé?”

All eyes were on the Duke; one or two men had begun to see daylight. Condé nodded impatiently.

“No. Go on, I beg of you!”

The emerald on the Duke’s finger glinted evilly.

“I am relieved. This man journeyed to the remote village, and⁠—er⁠—wrought with the Curé. When he returned to Paris he brought with him⁠—that.” From his pocket Avon drew a dirty and crumpled sheet of paper. He looked mockingly at Saint-Vire, who sat as though carved in stone. “That,” repeated his Grace, and laid the paper down on the mantelpiece behind him.

The tension could be felt. Davenant drew a deep breath.

“For a moment⁠—I almost believed it was a confession!” he whispered. “They’re beginning to guess, Marling.”

His Grace studied the painting on his fan.

“You may wonder, perhaps, why he did not expose Cain at once. I admit that was his first thought. But he remembered, messieurs, the years that Cain’s daughter had spent in hell, and he determined that Cain too should know hell⁠—a little, a very little.” His voice had grown stern; the smile was gone from his lips. Madame du Deffand was watching him with horror in her face. “And therefore, messieurs, he held his hand, and played⁠—a waiting game. That was his way of justice.” Again he swept a glance round the room; he held his audience silent and expectant, dominated by his personality. Into the silence his words fell slowly, quite softly. “I think he felt it,” he said. “From one day to the next he knew not when the blow would fall; he lived in dread; he was torn this way and that by hope, and⁠—fear, messieurs. Even he was cheated into the belief that his enemy had no proof, and for a while thought himself secure.” Avon laughed soundlessly, and saw Saint-Vire wince. “But the old doubts came back, messieurs; he could not be sure that there was no proof. Thus he lived in an agony of uncertainty.” Avon shut his fan. “My heroine was taken by her guardian to England, and taught to be a girl again. She was left on her guardian’s estates in the care of one of his kinswomen. Little by little, messieurs, she learned to like her girlhood, and to forget, in part, the horrors that lay in the past. Then, messieurs, Cain came to England.” His Grace took snuff. “Like a thief,” he said gently. “He stole my heroine, he drugged her, and carried her to his yacht that awaited him at Portsmouth.”

“Good God!” gasped Madame de Vauvallon.

“He’ll fail!” whispered Davenant suddenly. “Saint-Vire has himself well in hand.”

“Watch his wife!” Marling retorted.

His Grace flicked another speck of snuff from his golden sleeve.

“I will not weary you with the tale of my heroine’s escape,” he said. “There was another player in the game who followed hotfoot to the rescue. She contrived to escape with him, but not before Cain had sent a bullet into his shoulder. Whether the shot was meant for him or for her I know not.”

Saint-Vire made a hasty movement, and was quiet again.

“That such villains live!” gasped de Châtelet.

“The wound, messieurs, was severe, and compelled the fugitives to put up at a small inn not many miles from Le Havre. Happily my heroine’s guardian found her there, some two hours before the indefatigable Cain arrived.”

“He did arrive, then?” said de Sally.

“But could you doubt it?” smiled his Grace. “He arrived bien sûr, to find that Fate had foiled him once again. He said then, messieurs, that the game was not played out yet. Then he⁠—er⁠—retreated.”

“Scélérat!” snapped Condé, and cast one glance at Madame de Saint-Vire, who seemed to cower in her chair, and fixed his eyes on the Duke again.

“Exactly, Prince,” said his Grace smoothly. “We return now to Paris, where her guardian presented my heroine to Polite Society. Be silent, Armand, I am nearing the end of my story. She made no little stir, I assure you, for she was not an ordinary débutante. She was sometimes, messieurs, just a babe, but withal she had great wisdom, and greater spirit. I might talk to you of her for hours, but I will only say that she was something of an imp, very outspoken, full of espièglerie, and very beautiful.”

“And true!” Condé interjected swiftly.

His Grace inclined his head.

“And true, Prince, as I know. To resume: Paris began presently to remark her likeness to Cain. He must have been afraid then, messieurs. But one day it came to the child’s ears that the world thought her a baseborn daughter of Cain.” He paused, and raised his handkerchief to his lips. “Messieurs, she loved the man who was her guardian,” he said very levelly. “His reputation was soiled beyond repair, but in her eyes he could do no wrong. She called him her⁠—seigneur.”

Saint-Vire’s underlip was caught between his teeth, but he sat perfectly still, apparently listening with only a casual interest. There were many shocked eyes upon him, but he made no sign. In the doorway Rupert fingered his sword-hilt lovingly.

“When the child learned what the world said of her,” Avon continued, “she went to Cain’s house and asked him if she was indeed his baseborn daughter.”

“Yes? Allons!” Condé exclaimed.

“He conceived, messieurs, that Chance favoured him at last. He told the child that it was so.” Avon held up his hand as Armand jumped. “He threatened, messieurs, to expose her in the eyes of the world as his bastard⁠—and that other man’s mistress. He told her⁠—he was her father, messieurs⁠—that he would do this that her guardian might be ruined socially for having dared to foist his baseborn light-o’-love into Society.”

Madame de Saint-Vire was sitting straight in her chair now, gripping its arms with her fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly; she was very near to breaking point, and it was evident that this part of the tale was new to her.

“Ah, but what a cur!” cried Lavoulère.

“Wait, my dear Lavoulère. He was kind enough to offer the child an alternative. He promised to keep silence if she would disappear from the world she had only just entered.” Avon’s eyes grew harder, his voice was like ice. “I have said that she loved her guardian, messieurs. To leave him, to be condemned to go back to the old, sordid life, was worse than death to her. She had just⁠—tasted the cup of happiness.”

There were very few people in the room now who did not understand the tale; horror was in many faces; the silence was complete. Condé was leaning forward in his chair, his face grim and anxious.

“But continue!” he said harshly. “She⁠—went back?”

“No, Prince,” Avon answered.

“What then?” Condé had risen.

“Prince, for those who are desperate, for the unwanted, for the brokenhearted, there is always a way out.”

Madame du Deffand shuddered, and covered her eyes with her hand.

“You mean?”

Avon pointed to the window.

“Outside, Prince, not so very far away, runs the river. It has hidden many secrets, many tragedies. This child is just one more tragedy that has ended in its tide.”

A choked scream rang out, piercing and shrill. Madame de Saint-Vire came to her feet as though forced, and stumbled forward like one distraught.

“Ah, no, no, no!” she gasped. “Not that! Not that! Oh, my little, little one! God, have you no mercy? She is not dead!” Her voice rose, and was strangled in her throat. She flung up her arm, and collapsed at Avon’s feet, and lay there, sobbing wildly.

Lady Fanny sprang up.

“Oh, poor thing! No, no, madame, she is alive. I swear! Help me, someone! Madame, madame, calm yourself!”

There was a sudden uproar; Davenant wiped the sweat from his brow.

“My God!” he said huskily. “What a night’s work! Clever, clever devil!”

In the confusion a woman’s voice sounded, bewildered.

“I don’t understand! Why?⁠—What?⁠—Is that the end of the story?”

Avon did not turn his head.

“No, mademoiselle. I am still awaiting the end.”

A sudden scuffle in the alcove drew all attention from Madame de Saint-Vire to the Comte. He had sprung up as Madame’s control left her, knowing that her outburst had betrayed him completely, and now he was struggling madly with Merivale, one hand at his hip. Even as several men rushed forward he wrenched free, livid and panting, and they saw that he held a small pistol.

Condé leaped suddenly in front of the Duke, and faced that pistol.

It was over in a few seconds. They heard Saint-Vire’s voice rise on a note almost of insanity:

“Devil! Devil!”

Then there was a deafening report, a woman screamed, and Rupert strode forward, and flung his handkerchief over Saint-Vire’s shattered head. He and Merivale bent over the Comte’s body, and his Grace came slowly up to them, and stood for a moment looking down at that which had been Saint-Vire. At the far end of the room a woman was in hysterics. His Grace met Davenant’s eyes.

“I said that it should be poetic, did I not, Hugh?” he remarked, and went back to the fireplace. “Mademoiselle”⁠—he bowed to the frightened girl who had asked him for the story’s end⁠—“M. de Saint-Vire has provided the end to my tale.” He took the soiled paper from the mantelshelf where he had left it, and threw it into the fire, and laughed.