She had been wise to yield in time. When she returned to the drawing-room, she found Martial there. He was gazing on the ground, and held an open letter in his hand. But he raised his head when his wife entered the room, and she could detect signs of great emotion in his features. “What has happened?” she faltered. Martial did not remark her troubled manner. “My father is dead, Blanche,” he replied. “The Duke de Sairmeuse! Good heavens! how did it happen?” “He was thrown from his horse in the forest near the Sanguille rocks.” “Ah! it was there where my poor father was nearly murdered.” “Yes, the very place.” There was a moment’s silence. Martial’s affection for his father had not been very deep, and he was well aware that the duke had but little love for him. Hence he was astonished at the bitter grief he felt on hearing of his death. “From this letter, which was forwarded by a messenger from Sairmeuse,” he continued, “I gather that everybody believes it to have been an accident; but I--I----” “Well?” “I believe he was murdered.” An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and Blanche turned pale. “Murder!” she whispered. “Yes, Blanche; and I could name the murderer. Oh! I am not deceived. My father’s murderer is the same man who tried to kill the Marquis de Courtornieu----” “Jean Lacheneur!” Martial gravely bowed his head. It was his only reply. “And will you not denounce him? Will you not demand justice?” Martial’s face grew gloomy. “What good would it do?” he replied. “I have no material proofs to furnish, and justice requires unimpeachable evidence.” Then, as if communing with his own thoughts, rather than addressing his wife, he added, despondingly, “The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu have reaped what they sowed. The blood of murdered innocence always calls for vengeance. Sooner or later, the guilty must expiate their crimes.” Blanche shuddered. Each word found an echo in her own soul. Had her husband intended his words for her, he would scarcely have expressed himself differently. “Martial,” said she, trying to arouse him from his gloomy reverie; “Martial!”