ing? Why should he? He hated you, and you hated him. His name’s on that paper in your hand among all the rest. Do you think he eats humble pie and crawls to Madame and lets you stay here—for nothing?"
The Seigneur was painfully quiet and intent, yet his brain was like some great lens, refracting and magnifying things to monstrous proportions.
"A will was found?" he asked.
"By Madame in the library. She left it where she found it—behind the picture over the Louis Seize table. I found it too, the day you dismissed me. I found it, and started with it to M’sieu’ Fournel. She followed. You remember when she went—eh? On business—and such business!—she and Havel and the old slut Marie. You remember, eh, Louis?" he added with unnamable insolence. The Seigneur inclined his head. "V’là! they followed me, overtook me, and Havel shot me in the wrist—see there!" He held out his wrist. The Seigneur nodded. "But I got to Fournel’s first. I put the will into his hands. I told him Madame Madelinette was following. Then I went to bring the constables to his house to arrest her when he had finished with her." He laughed a brutal laugh, which deepened the strange glittering look in Louis’ eyes. "When I came an hour later, she was there. But—now you shall see what stuff they are both made of! He laughed at me. Said I had lied; that there was no will, that I was a thief, and had me locked up in gaol. For a month I was in gaol without trial. Then one day I was let out—without trial. His servant met me and brought me to his house. He gave me money and told me to leave the country. If I didn’t, I would be arrested again—for trying to shoot Havel, and for
