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“I had news of the rascal tonight,” whispered Nash. “He lay at a farm till yesterday, when he disappeared; his ruffians, too.”

“You have arranged?” asked the Duke.

“Fourteen bailiffs are watching without. He could not come within gunshot. If they clap eyes on him, they will hustle him to jail, and his cutthroats shall not avail him a hair’s weight. The impertinent swore he’d be here by nine, did he?”

“He said so; and ’tis a rash dog, sir.”

“It is just nine now.”

“Send out to see if they have taken him.”

“Gladly.”

The Beau beckoned an attendant, and whispered in his ear.

Many of the crowd had edged up to the two gentlemen with apparent carelessness, to overhear their conversation. Those who did overhear repeated it in covert asides, and this circulating undertone, confirming a vague rumor that Beaucaire would attempt the entrance that night, lent a pleasurable color of excitement to the evening. The French prince, the ambassador, and their suites were announced. Polite as the assembly was, it was also curious, and there occurred a mannerly rush to see the newcomers. Lady Mary, already pale, grew whiter as the throng closed round her; she looked up pathetically at the Duke, who lost no time in extricating her from the pressure.

“Wait here,” he said; “I will fetch you a glass of negus,” and disappeared. He had not thought to bring a chair, and she, looking about with an increasing faintness and finding none, saw that she was standing by the door of a small side-room. The crowd swerved back for the passage of the legate of France, and pressed upon her. She opened the door, and went in.

The room was empty save for two gentlemen, who were quietly playing cards at a table. They looked up as she entered. They were M. Beaucaire and Mr. Molyneux.

She uttered a quick cry and leaned against the wall, her hand to her breast. Beaucaire, though white and weak, had brought her a chair before Molyneux could stir.

“Mademoiselle–“

“Do not touch me!” she said, with such frozen abhorrence in her voice that he stopped short. “Mr. Molyneux, you seek strange company!”

“Madam,” replied Molyneux, bowing deeply, as much to Beaucaire as to herself, “I am honored by the presence of both of you.

“Oh, are you mad!” she exclaimed, contemptuously.

“This gentleman has exalted me with his confidence, madam,” he replied.

“Will you add your ruin to the scandal of this fellow’s presence here? How he obtained entrance–“

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” interrupted Beaucaire. “Did I not say I should come? M. Molyneux was so obliging as to answer for me to the fourteen frien’s of M. de Winterset and Meestaire Nash.”

“Do you not know,” she turned vehemently upon Molyneux, “that he will be removed the moment I leave this room? Do you wish to be dragged out with him? For your sake, sir, because I have always thought you a man of heart, I give you a chance to save yourself from disgrace–and–your companion from jail. Let him slip out by some retired way, and you may give me your arm and we will enter the next room as if nothing had happened. Come, sir–“

“Mademoiselle–“

“Mr. Molyneux, I desire to hear nothing from your companion. Had I not seen you at cards with him I should have supposed him in attendance as your lackey. Do you desire to take advantage of my offer, sir?”

“Mademoiselle, I could not tell you, on that night–“

“You may inform your high-born friend, Mr. Molyneux, that I heard everything he had to say; that my pride once had the pleasure of listening to his high-born confession!”

“Ah, it is gentle to taunt one with his birth, mademoiselle? Ah, no! There is a man in my country who say strange things of that–that a man is not his father, but himself.”

“You may inform your friend, Mr. Molyneux, that he had a chance to defend himself against accusation; that he said all–“

“That I did say all I could have strength to say. Mademoiselle, you did not see–as it was right–that I had been stung by a big wasp. It was nothing, a scratch; but, mademoiselle, the sky went round and the moon dance’ on the earth. I could not wish that big wasp to see he had stung me; so I mus’ only say what I can have strength for, and stand straight till he is gone. Beside’, there are other rizzons. Ah, you mus’ belief! My Molyneux I sen’ for, and tell him all, because he show courtesy to the yo’ng Frenchman, and I can trus’ him. I trus’ you, mademoiselle–long ago–and would have tol’ you ev’rything, excep’ jus’ because–well, for the romance, the fon! You belief? It is so clearly so; you do belief, mademoiselle?”