"It was fate--and that fool Grammont."
"Explain then, and quickly, or it will be the worse for you."
Lucas sat down, the table between them.
"Look here," he said abruptly, leaning forward over the board. "Have you
Mar's boy?"
"What boy?"
"A young Picard from the St. Quentin estate, whom the devil prompted to
come up to town to-day. Mar sent him here to-night with a love-message
to Lorance."
"Oh," said Mayenne, slowly, "if it is a question of mademoiselle's
love-affairs, it may be put off till to-morrow. It is plain to the very
lackeys that you are jealous of Mar. But at present we are discussing
l'affaire St. Quentin."
"It is all one," Lucas answered quickly. "You know what is to be the
reward of my success."
"I thought you told me you had failed."
Lucas's hand moved instinctively to his belt; then he thought better of
it and laid both hands, empty, on the table.
"Our plot has failed; but that does not mean that St. Quentin is
immortal."
"You may be very sure of one thing, my friend," the duke observed. "I
shall never give Lorance de Montluc to a white-livered flincher."
"The Duke of St. Quentin is not immortal," Lucas repeated. "I have
missed him once, but I shall get him in spite of all."
"I am not sure about Lorance even then," said Mayenne, reflectively.
"Francois de Brie is agitating himself about that young mistress.
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