his mind that for some purpose of his own the Marquis was seeking to
gain time. He drew his sword.

Florimond saw the act, watched it, and his eyes twinkled. Suddenly
Marius's sword shot out at him. He leapt back beyond the table, and
threw himself on guard, his lips still wreathed in their mysterious
smile.

"The time has come, messieurs," said he. "I should have preferred
to know more of how you slew that Monsieur de Garnache; but since you
deny me the information, I shall do my best without it. I'll try to
conjure up his ghost, to keep you entertained, Monsieur le Capitaine."
And then, raising his voice, his sword, engaging now his brother's:

"Ola, Monsieur de Garnache!" he cried. "To me!"

And then it seemed to those assassins that the Marquis had been
neither mad nor boastful when he had spoken of strange things he
had learned beyond the Alps, or else it was they themselves were
turned light-headed, for the doors of a cupboard at the far end of
the room flew open suddenly, and from between them stepped the
stalwart figure of Martin de Garnache, a grim smile lifting the
corners of his mustachios, a naked sword in his hand flashing back
the sunlight that flooded through the window.

They paused, aghast, and they turned ashen; and then in the mind of
each arose the same explanation of this phenomenon. This Garnache
wore the appearance of the man who had announced himself by that
name when he came to Condillac a fortnight ago. Then, the sallow,
black-haired knave who had last night proclaimed himself as Garnache