It is a laughing remark, but the laugh dies away as Guy sees its extraordinary effect upon the Flemish painter. At the words “pigeon pie” Oliver’s face grows pale. He turns and says suspiciously: “What do you know about pigeon pie?” “Only what I heard last evening from little Marvedie, son of Touraine the barber.” “What did he say about pigeon pie?” asks the painter, whose manner begins to impress Guy, as he mutters; “Speak quick—our lives may depend upon it!” “Only this,” says the Englishman, “that when you were here he had plenty of pigeon pie. He asked me if I liked pigeon pie, and then afterward—I think, yes, I am almost positive, he said perhaps he wouldn’t have so much pigeon pie now, as a man had taken away so many pigeons.” “A man—taken away so many pigeons—from here!” falters Antony. Then he suddenly exclaims: “That explains why there were no letters from Louis of Nassau in my cote above—no pigeons bearing them. I thought it was curious; I was nervous. My God! I must know.” Just then a rap coming upon the door he draws aside the curtain and opens it, confronting his apprentice Achille, a bright-eyed French youth, who says discontentedly: “I can’t get anything without the cash. Our great artist, Frans Floris, owes so much money that no other artists can buy anything for credit.” “Very well, put down your basket. I’ll see if I can get you some money,” says Oliver meditatively. Then a sudden idea seems to come to him, he cries: “Achille, where is little Marvedie? Bring him up, and we’ll send out and get some pigeons, and have some pigeon pie for him,” affecting great lightness of manner, though with evident effort. “All right. Marvedie is death on pigeon pie, and so am I,” says the youth, and flies downstairs. “I must question him,” murmurs the painter. “If this is true, the sword suspended by the hair is about to fall.” A moment later and the laughing voices of childhood are heard on the stairs, Achille and his little brother bound into the room, crying: “Pigeon pie! pigeon pie! Hurrah for Monsieur Oliver’s pigeon pie!” “Yes, pigeon pie,” cries the painter, “pigeon pie. But what has become of my pigeons? Have you taken them, Achille?” “No!” “Were there any flying about the cote? Not those in the coop, but in the cote—around in the air flying?” The artist’s voice has become hoarse—his eyes terrible. “Oh yes, a good many, for the last day or two,” answers the boy. Then noting his master’s manner, he screams out: “But I have not taken them, I swear to heaven, Monsieur Oliver, I have never taken any from the cote. On the word of an honest boy—do not discharge me!” “No, he didn’t take any,” cries little Marvedie; “a big tall man with nasty black eyes took them away.” “When?” “Yesterday.” “Did you see him? How do you know?” “Oh, I remember him because he laughed and seemed very happy, and gave me two stivers to get him a bag to put them in.”