"Who then? Who else?" cried Garnache.

"Why, now I understand, monsieur. But it is my wife who has the
fever."

"Your - !" Garnache dared not trust himself to utter the word.

"My wife, monsieur," the Marquis repeated. "The journey proved too
much for her, travelling at the rate she did."

A silence fell. Garnache's long chin sank on to his breast, and he
stood there, his eyes upon the tablecloth, his thoughts with the
poor innocent child who waited at Condillac, so full of trust and
faith and loyalty to this betrothed of hers who had come home with
a wife out of Italy.

And then, while he stood so and Florimond was regarding him
curiously, the door opened, and the host appeared.

"Monsieur le Marquis," said he, "there are two gentlemen below asking
to see you. One of them is Monsieur Marius de Condillac."

"Marius?" cried the Marquis, and he started round with a frown.

"Marius?" breathed Garnache, and then, realizing that the assassins
had followed so close upon his heels, he put all thoughts from his
mind other than that of the immediate business. He had, himself,
a score to settle with them. The time was now. He swung round on
his heel, and before he knew what he had said the words were out: