"Now, my dear Polignac, mark—before attempting the house ’tis well to poison the dog; aha! that is only my way of putting it, eh?" "Of course. A figure of speech; but from the life!" Aglionby flung him a suspicious glance; at times he had an uneasy feeling that Polignac was quizzing him. But after a momentary pause he went on as before. "The dog in this case—and a low cur it is—is the young cockerel’s servant—the same that embraced you so cordially at Madame de Vaudrey’s. Ha! ha! I can relish the comical side of it e’en though he embraced me also!—and before the charming mademoiselle too!" He guffawed uproariously. He felt that he was now getting tit for tat for Polignac’s covert sneers, often rather suspected than understood. But he was not a little startled by the effect of his words and laughter. Polignac flushed purple with rage; his mouth took a very decided twist towards his left eye. Springing up suddenly he cried: "Morbleu, Monsieur, a truce to your pleasantries! and keep the lady’s name out of it, or by the——" "No offence, no offence, my dear fellow," interposed the captain hastily. "I’m but a plain soldier—just an honest, bluff, outspoken old campaigner; we blades don’t pick and choose our words like you fine gentlemen of the courts; though in truth when I was in Russia my manners were as good as the best." Polignac resumed his seat reluctantly without a word. After a short, strained silence Aglionby went on: "The first thing, as I was saying, is to get this dog out of the way. Burn him! he follows his master like a shadow. The man removed, the rest is easy. A week from now, and he shall lie his length in six feet of good Dutch soil, or my name isn’t Ralph Montacute Aglionby. Leave it to me, Monsieur; there will be necessary expenses; say fifty guilders, a small sum, and at one time——" "Send to my chambers; you shall have the money. And by the way, here is a packet for Captain Rudge of the _Skylark_. He sails with this evening’s tide. Bid him have the greatest care of it; should he run into danger he must destroy it.—It is arranged, then? I shall hear from you?" "Within a week, on the word of a gentleman." "Then for the time, adieu!" When Polignac had gone, Aglionby looked curiously at the packet entrusted to him. The address ran: _For Mistress Consterdine_ _to be left at the coffee-house,_ _by the Cockpitt, Whitehall, London._ It was carefully but not conspicuously sealed. The captain turned it over and over in his dirty hands; they itched to open it. "To judge by his rage," he muttered, "he’s certainly smit with Mademoiselle de Vaudrey. ’Tis not merely his interest is engaged." He sat musing for a moment. Then his eye fell on a broadsheet, marked with many circular stains, that lay on one of the chairs. He took it up and searched for a passage which he had clearly already read. Lighting upon it, he read: