Saint-Vire choked.
“M’sieur?”
“I shall spare no pains,” continued his Grace. “The village is not a large hunting-ground, to be sure. You know that it is here, I suppose?”
“Yes—no—I do not know. It is not worth your trouble, m’sieur.”
“Oh, my dear Comte!” protested his Grace, “if it is worth so much endeavour”—his eyes flickered to those mud-caked boots—“so much endeavour on your part, I am sure it is also worth my attention.”
The Comte seemed to choose his words carefully.
“I have reason to think, m’sieur, that it is one of those jewels that contain—a flaw.”
“I trust not,” answered Avon. “So it was a jewel? Now that which was stolen from me is in the nature of a weapon.”
“I hope you have had the good fortune to find it,” said Saint-Vire, goaded, but holding fast to his self-control.
“Yes, my dear Comte, yes. Chance favours me nearly always. Strange. Let me assure you that I shall do my utmost to restore your—jewel, I think you said it was?—your jewel to you.”
“It—is not likely that you will find it,” said Saint-Vire, between his teeth.
“You forget the element of Chance, dear Comte. I am a great believer in my luck.”
“My property can hardly interest you, M. le Duc.”
“On the contrary,” sweetly replied his Grace, “it would afford me great pleasure to be able to assist you in the matter.” He glanced towards Léonie, who stood by the table, listening with a puzzled frown to the quick give and take of words. “I have quite a happy—shall we say, knack?—of finding lost—er—property.”
Saint-Vire turned livid. His hand shook as he raised his glass to his lips. Avon regarded him in exaggerated concern.
“My dear Comte, surely you are unwell?” Again his eyes went to Saint-Vire’s boots. “You must have come a long way, dear Comte,” he said solicitously. “No doubt you are sadly fatigued.”
The Comte spluttered and set down his glass with a snap.
“As you say, I—I am not entirely myself. I have been suffering from a—slight indisposition, which has confined me to my room these last three days.”
“It is really most remarkable,” marvelled his Grace. “My brother—I think you know him? Yes, quite so—is at this very moment above-stairs, also suffering from a slight indisposition. I fear there must be something unhealthy in the air of this place. You find it a trifle sultry, perhaps?”
“Not at all, m’sieur!” snarled Saint-Vire.
“No? These annoying disorders, I believe, have a way of overtaking one in any climate.”
“As my Lord Rupert found,” said Saint-Vire harshly. “I trust his—indisposition has not given him a distaste for my country.”
“Quite the reverse,” said his Grace blandly. “He is agog to proceed to Paris. He and I, dear Comte, believe firmly in that old remedy: the hair of the dog.”
The veins stood out on Saint-Vire’s forehead.
“Indeed? It is to be hoped that my lord does not act rashly.”
“You must not be concerned for him, dear Comte. I stand—as it were—behind him, and I have a wonderfully cool head. So they tell me. But you—ah, that is another matter! You must have a care to yourself, Comte. Let me implore you to relinquish your—search—until you are more yourself.”
Saint-Vire’s hand clenched.
“You are too good, m’sieur. My health is not your concern.”
“You mistake, dear Comte. I take a most lively interest in your—er—health.”
“I believe I shall do very well, m’sieur. My complaint is not so serious, I am glad to say.”
“Nevertheless, my dear Comte, it is always well to proceed cautiously, is it not? One never knows when these trifling ailments may not grow suddenly to quite large proportions. I have known a mere chill creep to the lungs, and strike a man down in the very prime of life.” He smiled pleasantly upon the Comte, who sprang suddenly to his feet, overturning his chair.
“Curse you, you’ve no proof!” he cried.
Up went his Grace’s brows. His eyes mocked.
“I assure you, dear Comte, I have known such a case.”
Saint-Vire pulled himself together with an effort.
“It will not happen—to me, I think,” he said thickly.
“Why, we will hope not,” agreed the Duke. “I believe that no one is—struck down—before the appointed hour.”
The Comte groped for his whip, and stood wrenching the lash between his hands.
“With your permission, m’sieur, I will leave you. I have wasted enough time already. Mademoiselle, your servant!” He spat the words out, snatched up his gloves, and went blindly to the door.
“So soon?” mourned his Grace. “I shall hope to have the felicity of seeing you in Paris. I must present my ward to your so charming wife.”
Saint-Vire flung open the door, and twisted the handle viciously. He looked back with a sneer.
“You are full of plans, m’sieur. We will hope that none of them go awry.”
“Certainly,” bowed Avon. “Why should they?”
“There is sometimes—a flaw!” snapped Saint-Vire.
“You bewilder me,” said his Grace. “Are we speaking of your lost jewel, or my plans—or both? I should warn you that I am something of a judge of precious stones, dear Comte.”
“Yes, m’sieur?” The flush mounted to Saint-Vire’s face again. “It is possible that you are labouring under a delusion, M. le Duc. The game is not played out yet.”
“By no means,” said the Duke. “Which reminds me that I have not inquired after your so enchanting son. Pray how does he?”
The Comte showed his teeth.
“He is very well, m’sieur. I feel no anxiety on his behalf. Your servant!” The door shut with a slam.
“The so dear Comte!” murmured Avon.
“Monseigneur, you did not do anything to him!” cried Léonie. “I thought that you would punish him!”
“Ma fille, the day comes when I shall punish him,” answered Avon, and threw down his fan. His voice had changed, and sounded harsh in Léonie’s ears. “And there will be no mercy for him at my hands.”
Léonie looked at him in awe and some admiration.
“You look quite angry, Monseigneur!”
His glance came to rest on her face. He went to her, and taking her
