“Your voice, your manner, your tone, the very bow and air with which you asked that question, everything about you belies the servant, monsieur,” continued Lucette. “I am Mademoiselle de Malincourt’s foster sister and friend, Lucette de Boisdegarde; and I am on my way to tell her of this discovery of mine and other things. You bar my path, monsieur,” she said with dignity, as Pascal in some dismay put himself before her. “If you are in truth a servant, I order you to stand aside; if you are a gentleman, I ask you.” “If I detain you a moment, it is only to assure you that Mdlle. de Malincourt and yourself can have no more faithful friend and well-wisher than myself.” “Your name, monsieur?” “Pascal de--Pascal Tourelle, at your service.” She was quick to see the slip, and pressed home a thrust at once. “On your honour?” “Pascal, on my honour; Tourelle, during my service with my master.” She smiled, partly at the evasion, but more at his manner of making it. “If you were not in this service of which you speak so readily, how would you have finished that sentence? Pascal de--what?” “That is my unhappy secret, mademoiselle; I beg your consideration,” and his tone suggested a melancholy trouble. But Lucette smiled. “Had you been a servant truly, your honour would not have stayed you from deceiving me. If I do not go now to mademoiselle, will you tell me all you know of this M. de Cobalt?” “I will tell you this, on my honour, and your honour will prevent your asking more,” he answered after a moment’s consideration. “A braver soldier, a more honourable knight, a more gallant gentleman, never trod this earth than he in whose service you now find me.” She looked at him searchingly, and believed him. But this very belief only sufficed to perplex her the more after Denys’ story. “One question more I must put. Do you know if he was ever at Cambrai? Do not answer against your will, nor if you cannot speak truly on your honour.” “I can answer that, frankly. I have known him many years, and can say that until within the last few days, never. We passed through the place in coming here.” “Then is the puzzle inscrutable!” exclaimed Lucette. Denys had told her of the murder at Cambrai, the pardon for which was part of the price to be paid to de Cobalt, and had spoken of a letter which he had found that put the thing plainly. He had been in the act of telling her where the paper was concealed, that she might get it and carry it to Gabrielle, when the relapse had prevented further speech. “I know not what to do,” she cried, in sore perplexity and distress. “If I trust you, others are sadly misled. And yet I believe you have not deceived me.” “On my honour I have spoken no more than the truth,” said Pascal earnestly. He was as much puzzled as Lucette herself. “If you would deal with me frankly, and say----” “I cannot; I cannot,” she broke in excitedly. “Then may I suggest you speak to M. de Cobalt?”