“So you have them on you, you sly devil, have you? Strip, to the skin, and let me see what’s there. If I play valet for you you’ll find little play in it, on my oath.” “I’ll tell you all, monsieur,” gasped Dauban, faintly. “Let me but get my breath.” “I want no more of your lies. Give me the papers.” “They are there,” and Dauban pointed to a desk. “Thank you, master liar, but first I’ll have those on you. Quick or----” and another threatening gesture finished the sentence. Slowly and with a groan of anguish, Dauban took out some of the papers he had concealed in his clothes, and laid them on the table. “The rest,” said Pascal, putting these out of the spy’s reach. “Strip and don’t try my temper farther, or I’ll not answer for myself.” Trembling so that his aching teeth chattered, Dauban obeyed the command; and as each garment was drawn off Pascal examined it for any concealed documents, and a quick glance at what he found showed him the nature and value of his discovery. He had the proofs not only of de Proballe’s infamy but also of the Duke’s complicity in everything. “Now open these places and, while I search, put on your clothes again. Quick!” he thundered. Then Dauban formed a plan. Terror-stricken though he was, he had yet sense to reflect that he could never face his master with such a confession. He donned his clothes rapidly and going to the cupboard said-- “There is a secret hiding place here, monsieur.” But Pascal was as sharp as a dagger’s point, and on the instant detected a change of tone, and was ready for a trick. “Open it,” he said, curtly, and without turning his head shifted his position just sufficiently to watch the spy. Dauban made a pretence of opening some secret recess and Pascal saw him snatch up something and conceal it. “It is open, monsieur,” said the spy. “Good. Fright makes a ready servant of you,” replied Pascal; and as if unsuspicious of treachery, crossed the room turning his back to give the spy his chance. With a quick stealthy rush Dauban sprang forward only to find himself foiled, his uplifted right hand caught in a grip of iron, the weapon taken from it and himself pinned against the wall with fingers of steel playing on his windpipe and Pascal’s eyes gleaming close to his. He wriggled and fought with the strength of despair; but the air was shut from his lungs, his sight grew blurred, a blood red mist surged about him, and then all was dark with the darkness of death. “The sly treacherous devil,” murmured Pascal, as he let the inert helpless body of the spy slip to the ground. “Who’d have thought he’d even enough pluck for such a thing?” What to do with him was a difficulty, however. Pascal had already lost time which could ill be spared and having had one experience of Dauban’s cleverness in slipping out of his bonds, he was loth to trust again to mere cords.