The game was lost. Blanche saw her husband entering, finding Chupin, conversing with him, and discovering all! Her brain whirled; she yielded. She hastily thrust her purse in Chupin’s hand and dragged him through an inner door and to the servants’ staircase. “Take this,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “I will see you again. And not a word--not a word to my husband, remember!” She had been wise to yield in time. When she re-entered the salon, she found Martial there. His head was bowed upon his breast; he held an open letter in his hand. He looked up when his wife entered the room, and she saw a tear in his eye. “What has happened?” she faltered. Martial did not remark her emotion. “My father is dead, Blanche,” he replied. “The Duc de Sairmeuse! My God! 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, it is 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 his father had but little love for him. 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 judge 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. “Murdered!” she whispered. “Yes, Blanche; and I could name the murderer. Oh! I am not deceived. The murderer of my father is the same man who attempted to assassinate the Marquis de Courtornieu----” “Jean Lacheneur!” Martial gravely bowed his head. It was his only reply. “And you will not denounce him? You will not demand justice?” Martial’s face grew more and more gloomy. “What good would it do?” he replied. “I have no material proofs to give, and justice demands incontestable evidence.” Then, as if communing with his own thoughts, rather than addressing his wife, he said, despondently: “The Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu have reaped what they have sown. 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 he intended his words for her, he would not have expressed himself differently. “Martial,” said she, trying to arouse him from his gloomy revery, “Martial.” He did not seem to hear her, and, in the same tone, he continued: