She drove her queries home with the directness of sword-thrusts. The Marquis gasped, fell back, utterly dismayed. He moistened his lips and strove to speak. “I—I—I do not know what Your Majesty means—” he faltered. “I had a servant called Babin in my employ, but I have discharged him.” “You did not know,” said the Queen pitilessly, “that Mademoiselle was carrying papers of infinite concern to me? Relying on your sense of honor”—she smiled mockingly—“I tell you the truth. They were letters that I had written years ago—silly, foolish letters, which yet might have given me trouble. Mademoiselle volunteered to get them and bring them to me. And you, Monsieur du Trémigon, having learned this in some way—oh, I have fathomed the whole procedure,” she went on, rising and confronting him. “You thought to get me in your power and force a consent from Mademoiselle through her love for me!” “Madame, I am innocent. I know no more about this than you have told me. Babin has not been in my service for months. I know nothing about the letters.” “Do you swear it?” “I swear it!” The Queen struck a bell on the table at my side. The equerry presented himself. “Is Monsieur Éspiau there?” she asked. “Yes, Your Majesty.” “Admit him.” In another moment the old servant of the Duke entered and fell on his knees before the Queen. “Rise, my friend,” she said, with that gentle grace, that benignity, that ought to have endeared her to the whole of France, high and low, rich and poor; “were you at the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet on last Wednesday night?” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “Were you in the apartments of the Comtesse de Villars?” “I was, Your Majesty.” “Between the hours of eleven and twelve?” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “Was the Marquis du Trémigon there?” “No, Your Majesty.” “And you would believe a servant’s word before mine?” said du Trémigon furiously. “We shall see. Call Monsieur Burnham,” she said to the attendant. I did not wait to be called. I was through the door in an instant. Du Trémigon started with additional surprise when he saw me. “What do you know of this charge of the Marquis du Trémigon?” asked the Queen after I had saluted her. “Your Majesty, I know that the Marquis du Trémigon was in his hôtel between the hours of eight in the evening and one in the morning. By no possibility could he have been in the apartment of Mademoiselle de Villars. Furthermore, the man Babin was in his employ yesterday.” “You hound!” cried du Trémigon, and then I stepped close to him. He shrank back. I stepped nearer. The Queen might have interfered, but I rather think she enjoyed it. “You know,” I said, frowning at him, “that you were not in the apartments of the Comtesse de Villars on that evening or any other evening.” He opened his mouth as if to speak. “Not a word or I’ll kill you where you stand!” “Your Majesty,” he cried, dexterously avoiding me, “will you condemn me on the words of a lackey and a criminal?”