“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “Comte Camus has poisoned a lady at the supper-table—yes, in your house; he intended to poison his wife. I have been watching him for some time. He poisoned Atalanta, the King’s hound, with poison which he had prepared for his wife, and which the dog ate by accident. Woe is me! I should have seized him to-day, but the evidence was not complete. I had arranged things otherwise, but God in His wisdom has brought my plans to nothing.” “_Bon Dieu_!” said Rochefort, all thoughts about himself swept away. There was something shocking in Lavenne’s face and voice and words. Choiseul, mystified, understanding only half of what had happened, yet comprehending the depth of the tragedy of which his house had been chosen for the stage, stood waiting, half dreading the re-appearance of Sartines, too proud to cross-question a subordinate and at heart furious at this scandal which had thrust itself upon his hearth. He had not to wait long. Steps sounded outside, the door opened and Camus entered, closely followed by Sartines. Camus, not comprehending the urgent summons, was, still, pale about the lips, and his manner had lost its assurance. Sartines shut the door. “That is the man,” said Lavenne, stepping forward and suddenly taking command of the situation. Lavenne, in a flash, had altered. He seemed to have increased in size; something ferocious and bullying lying dormant in his nature broke loose; advancing swiftly on Camus he seized him by the collar as he would have seized the commonest criminal and absolutely shouting in his face, held him tight clutched the while: “I arrest you, your game is lost. The antidote for the poison you have just given an unfortunate woman! Confess, save her, and you may yet save your neck. You refuse? You would struggle? Ah, there——” He flung himself on Camus as if he would tear the secret from him, but he was not searching for the secret, but for the dagger, which he found and plucked from him, flinging it to Sartines. Camus, who had not spoken a word, struggled furiously, white, gasping, terrific, proclaiming his infamy by his silence, knowing that all was over, and that this terrible man whom he had never seen before, this man who had lain hidden in his path and who had seized him like Fate, was his executioner. The struggle lasted only half a minute, then Camus was on the floor and Lavenne, with the whipcord which he always carried, was fastening the wrists of his prisoner. There was no appeal, no defence, or questions or cross-questions. Just a prisoner bound on the floor, and Lavenne, now calm, rising to address his master. “Shall I remove him, monsieur?” “But the antidote,” said Sartines. “There is no antidote, monsieur,” said Lavenne, “else he would have confessed to save his life.” He gave a down glance at Camus. Camus, white and groaning, lay like a man stricken by a mortal blow, and then Choiseul, glaring at him, spoke.