Lazarus also did not seem quite himself. He was red instead of pale, and his movements were uncertain and restless. He cleared his throat nervously at intervals and more than once left his chair as if to look for something. It was almost midnight when Loristan, standing near Marco, put his arm round his shoulders. "The Game"--he began, and then was silent a few moments while Marco felt his arm tighten its hold. Both Marco and The Rat felt a hard quick beat in their breasts, and, because of this and because the pause seemed long, Marco spoke. "The Game--yes, Father?" he said. "The Game is about to give you work to do--both of you," Loristan answered. Lazarus cleared his throat and walked to the easel in the corner of the room. But he only changed the position of a piece of drawing-paper on it and then came back. "In two days you are to go to Paris--as you," to The Rat, "planned in the game." "As I planned?" The Rat barely breathed the words. "Yes," answered Loristan. "The instructions you have learned you will carry out. There is no more to be done than to manage to approach certain persons closely enough to be able to utter certain words to them." "Only two young strollers whom no man could suspect," put in Lazarus in an astonishingly rough and shaky voice. "They could pass near the Emperor himself without danger. The young Master--" his voice became so hoarse that he was obligated to clear it loudly--"the young Master must carry himself less finely. It would be well to shuffle a little and slouch as if he were of the common people." "Yes," said The Rat hastily. "He must do that. I can teach him. He holds his head and his shoulders like a gentleman. He must look like a street lad." "I will look like one," said Marco, with determination. "I will trust you to remind him," Loristan said to The Rat, and he said it with gravity. "That will be your charge."