"Absurd!" objected Farrell. "In a town this small----" "Wait!" interrupted d'Artois. "Remember Antoinette's dream: the Marquis walked through the garden with the veiled Master. He may still be in that garden, not to emerge until the hour of the _soirée_." "By the rod, that's possible," agreed Farrell. "Since La Dorada was presumably killed by the Ismailians, the Marquis may be in their hands, dead, or a prisoner." "Now, as to this invitation," continued d'Artois, "it may be a device to exact vengeance for your excellent pistol practise. Their espionage would inform them that you, my friend and guest, would surely accompany me to the _soirée_. "But mark you this: they can scarcely know that your Antoinette could tell you of seeing the Marquis in the garden. That, you comprehend, is the information that ties the scattered ends together, and makes their otherwise subtle trap seem obvious to us. "My friend, do we go and defy them, or shall we stay at home?" Farrell laughed. "Pierre, you're comical at times! We'll go, and be damned to them and their trap. We can shoot our way out of any handful of knife-artists they throw at us, what?" "Ha! Is it that you are informing me?" scoffed d'Artois with a fierce gleam in his steel-blue eyes. "_Voilà_--have your choice of my arsenal," he said, gesturing at his collection of pistols, ranging from flintlocks and cap-and-ball antiques to heavy Colt revolvers and automatics. "And perhaps, since we shall be outnumbered, we might slip into those shirts of Persian chain-mail. They are not much heavier than a sweater, and so exquisitely forged as to be proof against knives and any but the heaviest pistols. _Parbleu_, we will attend that conclave!" After arraying themselves as d'Artois had suggested, they dressed for a formal evening affair. "Thaumaturgy ... thaumaturgy ..." muttered Farrell as they stepped into the Renault and d'Artois took the wheel. "Wonder, or miracle workers, what?" "Precisely," agreed d'Artois. "Jugglery, sleight of hand, trickery, but withal, an underlying substratum of fact that can not be dismissed. I myself have seen unbelievable things done by the adepts of Tibet. A corpse, _par exemple_, animated and made to dance by some devilish magic. The fact of my having been admitted to their inner circles in Tibet has in time leaked out; and it is to this that they would expect us to attribute my receiving tonight's invitation." * * * * * The château of the Marquis was out in the hills beyond the Mousserole Gate. It was perched on a knoll that commanded the surrounding country. Several cars were parked in a level space near the entrance. "It seems," observed Farrell, "that there are other guests, although that may or may not mean anything." D'Artois presented his invitation to the butler. "_Monsieur le Chevalier_ Pierre d'Artois," he intoned in impressive but oddly accented French. Then he glanced at Farrell.