“Will it serve?” Davenant muttered.

“Look at Saint-Vire!” Marling answered. “The Curé was an inspiration! It has taken him completely by surprise.”

“We shall remember the Curé,” said Armand grimly. “When does he play his part?”

“He plays it now, Armand, for it was into his hands that my heroine’s foster-mother, before she died, placed her—written—confession.”

“Oh, she could write, then, this peasant woman?” said Condé, who had been listening with knit brows.

“I imagine, prince, that she had once been tirewoman to some lady, for certainly she could write.” Avon saw Madame de Saint-Vire’s hands grip together in her lap, and was satisfied. “That confession lay for many years in a locked drawer in the Curé’s house.”

“But he should have published it abroad!” Madame de Vauvallon said quickly.

“So I think, madame, but he was a singularly conscientious priest and he held that the seal of the confessional could never be broken.”

“What of the girl?” asked Armand.

His Grace twisted his rings.

“She, my dear Armand, was taken to Paris by her foster-brother, a youth many years her senior. His name was Jean, and he bought a tavern in one of the meanest and most noisome of your streets. And since it was inconvenient for him to have a girl of my heroine’s tender years upon his hands, he dressed her as a boy.” The gentle voice grew harder. “As a boy. I shall not discompose you by telling you of her life in this guise.”

Something like a sob broke from Madame de Saint-Vire.

“Ah, mon Dieu!”

Avon’s lips sneered.

“It is a harrowing tale, is it not, madame?” he purred.

Saint-Vire half rose from his chair, and sank back again. People were beginning to look questioningly at one another.

“Further,” continued the Duke, “he married a slut whose care was to ill-use my heroine in every conceivable way. At this woman’s hands she suffered for seven long years.” His eyes wandered round the room. “Until she was nineteen,” he said. “During those years she learned to know Vice, to Fear, and to know the meaning of that ugly word Hunger. I do not know how she survived.”

“Duc, you tell us a ghastly tale!” said Condé. “What happened then?”

“Then, Prince, Fate stepped in again, and cast my heroine across the path of a man who had never had cause to love our friend Cain. Into this man’s life came my heroine. He was struck by her likeness to Cain, and of impulse he bought her from her foster-brother. He had waited for many years to pay in full a debt he owed Cain; in this child he saw a possible means to do so, for he too had remarked the plebeian manners and person of Cain’s supposed son. Chance favoured him, and when he flaunted my heroine before Cain’s eyes he saw Cain’s consternation, and slowly pieced the tale together. Cain sent an envoy to buy his daughter from this man whom he knew to be his enemy. Thus the suspicion that this new player in the game fostered grew to be a conviction.”

“Good God, d’Anvau,” murmured de Sally, “can it be——?”

“H’sh!” d’Anvau answered. “Listen! This grows very interesting.”

“From Jean,” Avon continued, “Cain’s enemy learned of my heroine’s old home, and of the Curé who lived there. I trust you have not forgotten the Curé?”

All eyes were on the Duke; one or two men had begun to see daylight. Condé nodded impatiently.

“No. Go on, I beg of you!”

The emerald on the Duke’s finger glinted evilly.

“I am relieved. This man journeyed to the remote village, and—er—wrought with the Curé. When he returned to Paris he brought with him—that.” From his pocket Avon drew a dirty and crumpled sheet of paper. He looked mockingly at Saint-Vire, who sat as though carved in stone. “That,” repeated his Grace, and laid the paper down on the mantelpiece behind him.

The tension could be felt. Davenant drew a deep breath.

“For a moment—I almost believed it was a confession!” he whispered. “They’re beginning to guess, Marling.”

His Grace studied the painting on his fan.

“You may wonder, perhaps, why he did not expose Cain at once. I admit that was his first thought. But he remembered, messieurs, the years that Cain’s daughter had spent in hell, and he determined that Cain too should know hell—a little, a very little.” His voice had grown stern; the smile was gone from his lips. Madame du Deffand was watching him with horror in her face. “And therefore, messieurs, he held his hand, and played—a waiting game. That was his way of justice.” Again he swept a glance round the room; he held his audience silent and expectant, dominated by his personality. Into the silence his words fell slowly, quite softly. “I think he felt it,” he said. “From one day to the next he knew not when the blow would fall; he lived in dread; he was torn this way and that by hope, and—fear, messieurs. Even he was cheated into the belief that his enemy had no proof, and for a while thought himself secure.” Avon laughed soundlessly, and saw Saint-Vire wince. “But the old doubts came back, messieurs; he could not be sure that there was no proof. Thus he lived in an agony of uncertainty.” Avon shut his fan. “My heroine was taken by her guardian to England, and taught to be a girl again. She was left on her guardian’s estates in the care of one of his kinswomen. Little by little, messieurs, she learned to like her girlhood, and to forget, in part, the horrors that lay in the past. Then, messieurs, Cain came to England.” His Grace took snuff. “Like a thief,” he said gently. “He stole my heroine, he drugged her, and carried her to his yacht that awaited him at Portsmouth.”

“Good God!” gasped Madame de Vauvallon.

“He’ll fail!” whispered Davenant suddenly. “Saint-Vire has himself well in hand.”

“Watch his wife!” Marling retorted.

His Grace flicked another speck of snuff from his golden sleeve.

“I will not weary you with the tale of my heroine’s escape,” he said. “There was another player in the game who followed hot-foot to the rescue. She contrived to escape with him, but not before Cain had sent a bullet into his shoulder. Whether the shot was meant for him or for her I know not.”

Saint-Vire made a hasty movement, and was quiet again.

“That such villains live!” gasped de Châtelet.

“The wound, messieurs, was severe, and compelled the fugitives to put up at a small inn not many miles from Le Havre. Happily my heroine’s guardian found her there, some two hours before the indefatigable Cain arrived.”

“He did arrive, then?” said de Sally.

“But could you doubt it?” smiled his Grace. “He arrived, bien sűr, to find that Fate had foiled him once again. He said then, messieurs, that the game was not played out yet. Then he—er—retreated.”

“Scélérat!” snapped Condé, and cast one glance at Madame de Saint-Vire, who seemed to cower in her chair, and fixed his eyes on the Duke again.

“Exactly, Prince,” said his Grace smoothly. “We return now to Paris, where her guardian presented my heroine to Polite Society. Be silent, Armand, I am nearing the end of my story. She made no little stir, I assure you, for she was not an ordinary debutante. She was sometimes, messieurs, just a babe, but withal she had great wisdom, and greater spirit. I might talk to you of her for hours, but I will only say that she was something of an imp, very outspoken, full of espičglerie, and very beautiful.”

“And true!” Condé interjected swiftly.

His Grace inclined his head.

“And true, Prince, as I know. To resume: Paris began presently to remark her likeness to Cain. He must have been afraid then, messieurs. But one day it came to the child’s ears that the world thought her a base-born daughter of Cain.” He paused, and raised his handkerchief to his lips. “Messieurs, she loved the man who was her guardian,” he said very levelly. “His reputation was soiled beyond repair, but in her eyes he could do no wrong. She called him her—seigneur.”

Saint-Vire’s underlip was caught between his teeth, but he sat perfectly still, apparently listening with only a casual interest. There were many shocked eyes upon him, but he made no sign. In the doorway Rupert fingered his sword-hilt lovingly.

“When the child learned what the world said of her,” Avon continued, “she went to Cain’s house and asked him if she was indeed his base-born daughter.”

“Yes? Allons!” Condé exclaimed.

“He conceived, messieurs, that Chance favoured him at last. He told the child that it was so.” Avon held up his hand as Armand jumped. “He threatened, messieurs, to expose her in the eyes of the world as his bastard—and that other man’s mistress. He told her—he was her father, messieurs—that he would do this that her guardian might be ruined socially for having dared to foist his base-born light-o’-love into Society.”

Madame de Saint-Vire was sitting straight in her chair now, gripping its arms with her fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly; she was very near to breaking point, and it was evident that this part of the tale was new to her.

“Ah, but what a cur!” cried Lavoulčre.

“Wait, my dear Lavoulčre. He was kind enough to offer the child an alternative. He promised to keep silence if she would disappear from the world she had only just entered.” Avon’s eyes grew harder, his voice was like ice. “I have said that she loved her guardian, messieurs. To leave him, to be condemned to go back to the old, sordid life, was worse than death to her. She had just—tasted the cup of happiness.”

There were very few people in the room now who did not understand the tale; horror was in many faces; the silence was complete. Condé was leaning forward in his chair, his face grim and anxious.