“Yes, he saved you, perhaps,” assented Roquefort, “but he refuses to answer my questions. I am grateful for the one; the other I cannot forgive. He must be made to answer.” I saw Brissac flush darkly and Claire grow pale. You may well conceive with what intentness I stared up at this scene--with what agony of earnestness I watched the face of each of the actors in it. “What are these questions, M. le Duc?” asked Brissac at last. “The first is--the name of the man who sent a message from here to Marsan, which this fellow carried to Montauban. He says he did not see the messenger--at least, not his face--and that he does not know his name. But the other question cannot be evaded so easily. I want the name of the person who, three nights since, cut the bonds which held him to Drouet.” I saw the blood sweep in a wave from Claire’s face as she came slowly forward. I understood what she was about to do, and implored her with my eyes not to speak, but she did not even glance at me. “Do you mean, M. le Duc,” she asked, in a voice strained by emotion, “that if you have the name of this person you will release M. de Marsan?” Roquefort glanced at her, surprised by her emotion. “Perhaps,” he said. “I had sworn to have his life, but the story you have told me counts in his favor.” “Then, M. le Duc,” she said firmly, “learn that I am the person. M. de Marsan chose not to betray me, but I can betray myself.” I could feel the force with which Roquefort gripped the bottom of the rack to steady himself under the blow. “You!” he cried. “You!” and he glared at her with bloodshot eyes. “Name of God! But this is beyond endurance! You--Claire de Brissac, whom I have honored with the offer of my hand--a traitor!” “Not a traitor, M. le Duc,” she protested proudly. “I sought merely to save the life of a man who had saved my uncle’s. I am still seeking to do so. Surely I have succeeded!” But Roquefort was looking down at me and did not answer. “Tell me, M. de Marsan,” he said at last, “is this pretty story true--this story of the rescue?” “Quite true, M. le Duc.” “And did Cadillac know?” “He recognized me at once, Monsieur. So did Letourge. He was in bed----” “In bed?” queried Roquefort, surprised. “In bed--yes. It was he whom Mademoiselle struck across the face with a white-hot iron. He will always wear the scar.” “And he did not hang you?” “He was about to, Monsieur. Only, in the end, he determined to prove whether I or d’Aurilly were the traitor.” Roquefort looked across the room where the traitor’s body lay, a dark heap on the platform. “Ah, yes, I had forgot,” he murmured. Then he turned to Claire. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “since you answer yourself, I quite absolve M. de Marsan, and out of gratitude for that exploit of his am ready to release him.” I heard Claire breathe a sigh of relief as he paused; but I saw the devil in his eyes. I knew that the end was not yet.