“Well,” returned Louis, “let us admit that I am worth some trouble, but not worth running risks for. And I am sure you have run, and will be running, risks for me.” Château-Foix shrugged his shoulders. “Not if you will do as I ask,” he responded rather coldly. “Let me tell you what that is. To-morrow morning about noon we start for Chantemerle; we will post, and ought to get to Dreux the same night. I am proposing to take rather a circuitous route, for safety’s sake. I have got a passport for you as my valet, in the name of Pierre Jourdain. All I ask is that you shall play the part as well as you can, for both our sakes.” “But,” broke in Louis, “I would rather stay in Paris. Why—they are all taken, I suppose, D’Aubeville, Périgny, and the rest—and one might try——” “I am sorry,” said his cousin, “but in the matter you have no choice. I gave my word that you should go at once; it was a condition of your release. The rest, I fear, must pay the penalty—but, by the way, M. d’Aubeville had not been arrested yesterday evening, for it was he who advised me to go to Madame d’Espaze.” The light died out of the Vicomte’s face as he listened to this pronouncement, and he sat down rather gloomily on the bed and said nothing. The Marquis looked at him for a moment as he stared at the floor, with his hands in his pockets. “Well, go to bed now,” he said, more kindly. “You can’t help yourself, Louis—and who knows what there may be to do in Poitou? Good-night.” He went out and shut the door between the two rooms. It had been a day of great tension and fatigue, following on a sleepless night, and the moment that he was alone, Gilbert realised how tired he was—too tired (as he half thankfully realised) to look his haunting idea in the face again at present. Undressing rapidly, he threw himself into bed. Scarcely had he blown out his light before there was a rap on the door between his room and his cousin’s, and Louis, in his shirt and breeches, stood in the doorway. The light behind him threw up his figure, but left his face untouched. “I forgot to ask you,” he said, “about Lucienne. Is she going with Madame Gaumont to-morrow as arranged?” It is true that Gilbert then wished that he had not extinguished his candle, but he was too proud to light it again for the purpose of seeing the speaker’s face, and the voice told him nothing. “Yes,” he answered. “She leaves Paris to-morrow about eleven.” There was an infinitesimal pause. “You told her, I suppose, that I could not escort her to England?” “Yes,” said the Marquis, and then a mad idea rushed into his mind. He raised himself on his elbow. “Am I to understand that you are reconsidering your decision—that you wish to take her—now?” His heart thumped absurdly on his ribs as he waited for the answer—absurdly, because he had no intention of allowing Louis to do so, but the question was a test.