“Can you tell anything about him? Do you know his name, little Marvedie—little pigeon pie Marvedie?” gasps Antony, attempting a grimace, with a face that is like a death mask. “No, but he was ugly and had nasty eyes, eyes that looked like the codfish they sell in the market.” “How many pigeons did this man take away? Did you count them, little Marvedie—little pigeon pie Marvedie?” and the painter achieves a ghastly chuckle. “Yes, there were six, with bunches on their beaks and eyes that looked back and front. The kind whose necks you wring when you give me pigeon pie,” says the little child. “And where was your brother?” The painter’s voice is low and stern. “Oh, I was out trying to sell one of your pictures,” says Achille. “At least I think I was. That’s what I’ve been trying to do ever since you went away, but they’re all here yet. The Duke’s tenth penny is ruining everybody. No body has any money to spare, at least not for works of art.” “Very well,” sighs Antony, “here’s a florin. Yes, get the pigeons!” he laughs dismally. “We’ll have the pigeon pie.” The two boys run away. The painter’s face is white as his own chalk, and he falters. “At last it has come. Some one has my secret.” “What secret” mutters Guy, half guessing. “The letters brought to me by carrier pigeons from Louis of Nassau, with whom I am in correspondence for the benefit of the Netherlands. Of course they are in cipher, they cannot be construed in a moment; but the hair has been cut, the sword is descending, I am no better than a dead man; worse than that—I am a tortured man! Oh, my God! think of the rack, the faggot, that await me!” and the Fleming’s eyes become bloodshot, his cheeks gray, and his lips blue. “If we could discover the man who has your secret,” says the Englishman, prompt to action, well knowing that danger to Oliver now means danger to himself. “Ah! but how? When Alva arrives the man will surely give him the information; it would be very valuable, warning of a traitor in the Duke’s own corresponding bureau. I—I had been anxious all the morning. When I—I arrived here I expected to find the pigeons with the letters tied to their tails from Louis. Now I know—the reason. Six! Six letters—each one of them enough to send me to the slow fire!” moans the painter, striking his hands together till his finger nails are blue. “Six! Six pigeons!” echoes Guy. Then he suddenly cries: “Do you know a man with dark, fishy eyes, such as the boy described, and a black mustache with one single, whitish gray lock in it?” “My God!” cries the artist. “I do. He—you have told me who—Vasco de Guerra—my enemy! He has—has my letters!—What gave you the clue?”