himself. "Fool! Madman! You know not what you do!" As the
words passed his lips, he made an adroit forward movement,
surprised the other, clutched him by the arms, and with a
strength I should never have thought lay in his meagre frame,
flung him some paces into the room. "Fool!" he hissed, shaking
his crooked fingers at him in malignant triumph. "There is no
man in Paris, do you hear--or woman either--shall thwart me to-
night!"

"Is that so? Indeed?"

The words, and the cold, cynical voice, were not those of
Mirepoix; they came from behind. The priest wheeled round, as if
he had been stabbed in the back. I clutched Croisette, and
arrested the cramped limb I was moving under cover of the noise.
The speaker was Bezers! He stood in the open door-way, his great
form filling it from post to post, the old gibing smile on his
face. We had been so taken up, actors and audience alike, with
the altercation, that no one had heard him ascend the stairs. He
still wore the black and silver suit, but it was half hidden now
under a dark riding cloak which just disclosed the glitter of his
weapons. He was booted and spurred and gloved as for a journey.

"Is that so?" he repeated mockingly, as his gaze rested in turn
on each of the four, and then travelled sharply round the room.
"So you will not be thwarted by any man in Paris, to-night, eh?
Have you considered, my dear Coadjutor, what a large number of
people there are in Paris? It would amuse me very greatly now--
and I'm sure it would the ladies too, who must pardon my abrupt
entrance--to see you put to the test; pitted against--shall we