“Oh, _mon Dieu_! My dear Lavenne, if you can only put your finger on that person, you will own the thanks of the entire staff. It is not that a dog has been poisoned, or that the dog is the favourite dog of the King, or rather, I should say, was the favourite dog of the King. It is that the Hôtel de Sartines has been put to shame by a small matter like this. Other failures one can hush up; other failures, though, indeed, we make few enough, are forgotten; but the smell of this business seems to permeate everywhere; and the thing will not be forgotten, simply because it is so small that it gives such a splendid field for the little wits of Paris and the Court to exercise themselves in.” “Well, Captain Beauregard,” said Lavenne, “the poisoning of Atalanta, though seemingly a small enough affair, will, if I am not greatly mistaken, be the centre of an affair big enough to satisfy even the Hôtel de Sartines. I hope to put my hand on the poisoner, and in doing so to clear Monsieur de Rochefort from the charge of being an assassin, and also I hope to save a woman’s life.” “_Mordieu_!” said Beauregard, “you are going to do a great many clever things, then—— Tell me, am I in your secret?” “Why, yes, I don’t mind letting you know what is in my mind, though you know how I hate telling of what I propose to do or propose to find. As a matter of fact, you are the only man in France to whom I can talk, and yet feel that I have not lost energy in so doing; for it is a strange thing, but once one opens one’s mind to an ordinary person, a blight seems to creep in on the precious thoughts, hopes or ambitions that one cherishes in darkness. And I will tell you why it is different with you. You do not criticize or throw doubts upon budding fancies. Were I to open my mind to Monsieur de Sartines quite fully, he would put his hand in and take out my most precious thoughts, turn them over, criticize them, throw cold water upon them, perhaps, and put them back—then they would be dying—or dead.” “I do not criticize you, Lavenne, because I have a lively feeling that any criticism of mine would be an impertinence, at least on the work of so close a reasoner as you are. Tell me, then, and I will repeat nothing—Who was the poisoner of Atalanta?” “Count Camus.” Beauregard whistled. “And who is the lady whose life you are going to save?” “The Comtesse Camus.” “The man’s wife?” “Precisely.” “Good God!—and how is it threatened?” “By poison.” “And who is the prospective poisoner?” “Count Camus.” “Just heavens! Tell me, for I am vastly interested, how you found this out?” “A few days ago—or, to be more precise, the day after Count Camus had returned from a hunting expedition with Monsieur de Rochefort, he was walking with his wife in the grounds of Trianon. He had brought with him a prepared rose.” “A prepared rose?”