Mornay waited while the Englishman smothered his rage. Then, with a sudden motion, he brushed his kerchief across his temples, as though to wipe the clouds from his forehead.

“If madame will but bear with my brutality a little longer”—he smiled—“a little longer—then she will have done with me forever.” The gesture and the air of contrition were rather racial than personal characteristics. But, as one sometimes will in times of great stress, Mistress Barbara could not but compare Mornay’s ease and sang-froid with the heavy and somewhat brutal bearing of Captain Ferrers. She hated herself for the thought, and, as Monsieur Mornay spoke, turned her face resolutely to the window and away from him.

“If madame will remember what I have had the honor to tell her, she will now discover how Monsieur Ferraire becomes concerned.” He glanced at Ferrers, who stood to one side, his arms folded, his features sullen and heavy with the impotence of his wrath. The Frenchman was playing a desperate game, with every chance against him. To unmask the secret, he must take the somewhat heavier Englishman off his guard. Of one thing he felt sure, Ferrers knew little more as to the papers than did Cornbury and himself. He began abruptly, without further preface:

“Madame has just learned from my lips of certain matters, Monsieur le Capitaine, which bear strongly upon her interests in the estate of Bresac. She has yet to learn how much a part of it all you have become. She has been told of the fortunes of Eloise d’AÑasco and of the rightful heir to the estates. What she wishes most to learn is the contents and purport of the papers in your possession.”

Mornay had spoken slowly, to give force to his words, and the effect of his information upon Ferrers was remarkable. The lowering crook came out of his brows, and his hand made an involuntary movement to his breast, the fingers trembling a moment in the air. His face relaxed like heated wax, and he stared at the Frenchman, his mouth open, the picture of wonderment and uncertainty.

Mistress Clerke, who had been about to speak, paused bewildered. Ferrers stammered awkwardly, as though gathering his wits for a reply.

“The papers!” he gasped at last. “The papers!” And then with a futile attempt at sang-froid, “What papers, monsieur?”

If the Englishman had not been so completely off his guard he would have seen a flash of triumph in the Frenchman’s eyes. Mornay narrowly watched his discomfiture; then continued, quietly:

“Monsieur le Capitaine Ferraire, RenÉ d’AÑasco has been found. The son of Eloise de Bresac has come to life and is to-day in London. He knows of the sale of his birthright. He has discovered the proofs of his mother’s marriage and of his birth at Amiens. He but awaits a favorable opportunity to bring the matter before a court.” By this time Captain Ferrers had recovered a certain poise. He swaggered over to the mantel, where he turned to Mistress Clerke.

“A fine tale!” he sneered. “A pretty heir, Mistress Barbara, to send a hunted man as his ambassador.” Then the presence of Cornbury at the dying confession came to his memory, and the situation dawned upon him for the first time. He laughed aloud with real blatant merriment.

“I see!” he cried. “It is you—you, Mornay, the outcast—Mornay, the broken gambler, the man without a creed or country, who is now become the Vicomte de Bresac. It is a necromancy worthy of Dr. Bendo.”

He was firm upon his feet again. The very absurdity of the claim had restored his heavy balance—somewhat disturbed by the announcement of his possession of the papers. He turned to Mistress Clerke and found her eyes, full of wonder and inquiry, still turned upon him. She was sensible of an influence which the Frenchman’s words had wrought, and felt rather than saw the surprise and alarm which underlay the somewhat blustery demeanor of Captain Ferrers. During the dÉnouement not a word had passed her lips. When she had tried to speak it seemed as though she had been deprived of the power. She had sat looking from the one to the other, fear and doubt alternating in her mind as to the intentions of the Frenchman. What did it all mean? Captain Ferrers, at the best of times, was not a man who could conceal his feelings; but why had he lost countenance so at the mention of papers? Why had he not done something at the first that would prove the Frenchman the cheat and impostor that he was? Why did the irony of his words fall so lightly upon the ears of Monsieur Mornay that he seemed not even to hear them? Why were the Frenchman’s eyes so serious, so steady, so clear to return her gaze? With an effort she slowly arose, struggling against she knew not what—something which seemed to oppress her and threaten the freedom of her speech and will. A feeling that she had allowed herself, if even only for a moment, to be influenced against her better judgment, filled her with resentment against this man who had broken past her barriers again and again, and now offended not only the laws of society but the laws of decency by brutally pushing past her servants and holding her against her will a prisoner in her own apartments. As she stood upon her feet she regained her composure, and when she spoke her voice rang with a fearlessness that surprised even herself. It was the exuberance and immoderation of fear—the sending of the pendulum to the other end of its swing.

“For shame, sir, to make war upon a woman! Is there not left a spark of the gallantry of your race that you should break into a woman’s house like a cutpurse, a common pirate and outlaw? Have you no pride of manhood left—no honor? No respect for the sanctity of the sex that bore you? Would you oppress and hold a helpless woman in restraint? Monsieur, you are a coward!—a coward! I repeat for the last time, I do not believe you. I would not believe you if you gave me your oath.”

Ferrers said nothing, but the curl of his lips told the volume of his pleasure.

They were dreadful words to Mornay, but he looked at her with a calmness that gave no sign of hidden discomfiture. His eyes did not drop under her lashing sneers. Instead, as she paused he began speaking, with a quiet insistence in which there was the least touch of patronage.

“Madame, hear me out, I pray you. I have come brutally into your house. I have been the bully with you and yours. I have held you prisoner. To ask your pardon would be still further to insult you. But I leave London to-night and—” As Ferrers interposed, he raised his hand. “Pardon, monsieur, a moment and I have done. I leave London to-night, and I shall not trouble you more.”

“Thank God for that!” she said, bitterly.

Mornay continued as though he did not hear her: “I have broken in upon you because it was the only way that I could see you—the only way that I could tell you what I had to say. That I have sinned is because—well, because I had hoped that, after all, madame, perhaps the blood could flow warmly from your heart.” He tossed his chin defiantly. “You have scorned me for one who bears false witness, though you have seen your English captain go pale at the mention of those papers. You will believe what he says and scorn me, in whom runs the blood of the same grandparents as yourself. You have looked upon me as an impostor. Eh bien. Think what you will. Impostor I am not.” He drew himself up and said, clearly, in a full measure of pride and dignity, “I am RenÉ de AÑasco, Vicomte de Bresac.”

He moved to the door, looking not at her or even noticing the contemptuous laugh of Captain Ferrers; then, slowly, “I leave you, madame. To-morrow I will be but a memory—an evil dream, which soon passes away. You have chosen to be my enemy and to send me away from you in scorn, hatred, and disbelief. Let it be so. But remember, madame, when I am gone every pretty sweetmeat you put in your mouth, every dainty frock you put upon your back, every slipper, every glove, every ring and spangle that you wear, is mine—all mine.”

She shrank back with horror at the thought, and Ferrers broke in with an illy suppressed oath:

“One moment, sirrah!” he cried. “If the play-acting’s done, I’d have a word with you. Will you permit Mistress Clerke to withdraw?”

Mornay took his hand from the knob of the door and turned, while a gleam of satisfaction crossed his features. In that look Mistress Barbara read a sinister intention. She thrust herself before Captain Ferrers.

“No! No!” she cried. “You shall not! There shall be no more—no more blood-shedding, Captain Ferrers! Let the man go. Let him go, I tell you! Let him go! As you love me, let him go!”

Captain Ferrers disengaged her arms from about his shoulders, while Mornay watched them, half amused, half satirical.

“Fear nothing for him, madame,” he interrupted, dryly. “There will be no fight with Capitaine Ferraire. ’Tis only a touch of irritation and will speedily pass when I am gone.” He opened the door and called into the hall, “Vigot!—the coach!”

But Captain Ferrers had put Mistress Clerke aside.

“You must go!” he cried, furiously, almost jostling the shoulder of the Frenchman.

“Tush, monsieur!” said Mornay, sternly. “You forget yourself. I will be at the Fleece Tavern to-night at eleven. If you would see me before I leave England, you will find me there. Madame, your servitor.” In a moment he had closed the door and was walking down the hallway.

Monsieur Mornay knew that Ferrers would lose but little time in arousing the servants of Mistress Clerke, and that before he should have gone very far upon his way there would be a hue and cry after him. But he had great confidence in Vigot, and the coachman and outriders were rogues with comfortable consciences, who, if they were well paid, could be depended on. He entered the coach and waved his hand. The coachman snapped his lash over the heads of the leaders. The fire flew from the cobbles as the animals clattered into a stride.

The vehicle had not moved its own length before Ferrers and two lackeys came running out of the house, shouting at the top of their bent. But Vigot had his instructions. The lash came down again and the horses broke into a brisk trot. One of the lackeys sprang for the bridle of the nearest outrider, but the horseman gave the man a cut across the face with his whip, and he fell back with a scream of pain. Ferrers was absolutely helpless. There were not half a dozen people in the street. Monsieur Mornay thrust his head out of the window of the coach and took off his hat.

“The Fleece Tavern at eleven,” he said.

Ferrers hurled a curse at him and renewed his shouting, to the end that men by this time came running from the houses and shops farther up the street, through which the coach must pass. But the horses were moving at a full gallop. It would have been easier to stop a charge of cavalry. Most people simply looked back at Ferrers and stared. One or two venturesome fellows rushed out, but a sight of the resolute faces of the outriders, who guarded the leaders’ heads, was enough to make them pause, and the coach clattered on to safety. There were twenty plum-colored calashes in the city, and Mornay knew that detection would be difficult if not impossible at this time of the evening, when the streets were cleared and the coach could wind deviously to the distant purlieus of Fenchurch Street. Soon the clamor they had made was lost in the turns of the winding streets, and the coach was brought by a distant route to the spot at which Monsieur Mornay had entered it—not a stone’s-throw from the Swan.

Cornbury was awaiting him upstairs. He had puffed the room full of smoke, and a look of relief passed over his face as Mornay entered. “Well, monsieur?” he asked.

Mornay did not answer. He tossed his hat down and threw himself into a chair.

“I’ve lost,” he muttered at last. He said no more, and Cornbury did not press him for information. But presently, when the supper was brought, and his eye alighted upon the face of his servant, he broke into a smile.

“Ah, Vigot!” he cried. “Did my honest rogues get back to their stable?”

“In perfect safety, monsieur. ‘Scaldy’ Quinn and Tom Trice are not the ones to be caught napping. They only wish another venture in your service.” Mornay sadly shook his head. “Vigot, I shall need no further service in England. You, too, shall go back to France—and I—” He paused as a sudden thought came to him. He brought his fist down upon the table. “Parbleu! Wait, Vigot! Perhaps we may yet have need for these fellows. Tell them to come here quietly by ten of the clock.”

Cornbury had been watching him narrowly. Now he broke out angrily.

“Can ye not be satisfied? Why must ye go forever risking yer neck in the noose? Ye’ve escaped this time. How, God knows, save by that presumption which ye wear as a garment. Come, now, I’ve made up my mind to go to the Plantations. Take ship with me, man. I know of a venture there that is worth the pains of the trouble twenty times over. Come at least for the present, until yer peril is grown less.”

Mornay was holding his chin in his hand, lost in thought.

“Mon ami,” he said at last, “I’ve shot my bolt and lost. There was never so heartless a maid since the world began.”

“Tush, dear man! Must ye be forever thinking of the girl? A wench is a wench in England or Ameriky.”

Mornay arose and put his hands frankly upon the other’s shoulders.

“I’ll go with you, my good friend, where you please—after to-night.”

“Ay, and to-night—ye may go to the devil—”

“’Tis so. I have an appointment with Captain Ferrers at the Fleece for eleven.”

Cornbury’s face fell.

“Egad, man, ye’re incorrigible! And d’ye think he’ll meet ye?”

“I don’t know. He may not, alone. But I think that he will, in company. If he does, I’ll not fail him.”

“Don’t ye go. It will be a trap. The man will not fight, I tell you, while the law of England can do his vengeance for him. Ye’ll run afoul of an army of constables.”

“I know it, but I’ll risk it.”

“And if ye kill him ye destroy the last proof of yer birth,” sneered the Irishman.

“I don’t know,” replied Mornay, coolly. Cornbury stormed up and down the room in a rage.

“Ye’ll have your will,” he cried, “for the sake of a little fight. Go to your death, rash man that ye are, but don’t say that I haven’t warned ye.”

“Cornbury, listen. I’ve a desire to look into the pockets of this Capitaine Ferraire.”

“And what do ye think ye’ll find there—the blessing of the Pope?”

Mornay laughed outright. “Perhaps, but not for me. An idea has grown upon me, and now possesses me body and soul. It is that these papers are in the coat of Monsieur Ferraire.”

Cornbury sent out a sudden volume of smoke to signify his disgust.

“P’sh! Do ye think the man has but one suit? Ye’ll lose your labor, sir. He has hidden yer proofs most secretly by this.”

“None the less, mon ami, I’m going to pick his pocket!”

There was a thin skim of storm over the face of the moon as Mornay and Cornbury left the Swan Tavern. The wind was fitful in the streets, and, though the season was June, as they passed a corner now and then a heavy gust, full of the dampness and rigor of October, flew full in their faces and caused them to pull their summer cloaks more closely about them. Following in their footsteps were three men, one of whom was Vigot. The other two were the rascals who had served as outriders to Monsieur Mornay in the afternoon: Tom Trice, a tall and slender, stoop-shouldered man, who peered uneasily to left and right, and “Scaldy” Quinn, who was short, with a most generous breadth of leg and shoulder. The Frenchman had paid them liberally before leaving the Swan, and the understanding was that they should follow instructions without question, and if necessary be prepared to strike a sturdy blow or two for monsieur, who was going into the camp of his enemies. The Fleece Tavern had lately gained a bad name by reason of the many brawls and homicides that had occurred within its walls. The place was not inaptly named, for its master, Papworth, took money when and how he might, and bore the name of one who would not stop at a sinister deed if it would avail him to achieve his end. But in spite of its disrepute among the more careful of its gamesters at the court, the Fleece was still frequented by a larger following than any other gaming-house in London. There was more money to be seen there. Most of its rooms were filled at all hours with a motley crowd of men of the town, noblemen, and soldiers of fortune, who would play at dice, basset, and quinze for days and nights at a time, dropping out only when the lack of food and sleep made it necessary.

Cornbury strode along, muttering in his cloak.

“Why go on this d——d fool’s errand?” he said, at last. “Why will ye not take ship comfortably, like a gentleman? Like ye the look of a prison that ye must be prying and poking yer head inside the bars? Ye’re a fool, man.”

Mornay paused to look at him curiously for a moment, and then he laughed.

“I am. And you’re another, mon ami, for going with me.” They walked along for a moment in silence before the Frenchman spoke again. “Here is what we shall do, Cornbury: Vigot shall go into the house next to the Fleece, which is upon the corner. It is a mercer’s shop, with lodgings above, to let. He will choose a room, and so gain his way to the roof. He will then steal over the leads to the dormer of the Fleece and down into the hall, making all clear for our escape. The other two rascals will enter by the cook-room, and, gaining their way upstairs, await our signal there. We will then meet Capitaine Ferraire and his friend with an eye in the back of our heads for any signs of his followers.” As Mornay proceeded he could see the eyes of the Irishman flash with delight in the moonlight.

“’Tis a good plan,” he returned, “and but for one thing—”

“What?”

“They may be too many for you. Ferrers will have half of the watch with him, for by this there’s a pretty premium upon your head.”

“The more credit, then, in outwitting them”; and then, sinking his voice, “Silence, monsieur, we are already in the shadow of St. Paul’s.”