It was Lucien who rode to Lanvennec next morning for the surgeon. M. de Brencourt considered him discreet, and chose him rather than Artamène (who had besides been up all night) or any other of the younger men. But had he known that Lucien, though outwardly respectful and certainly of a fundamental prudence, was finishing in his head as he rode a short but very venomous epistle in verse, beginning, “Artus, le Judas de nos jours!” in which, somewhere near the end, “ma?tre” rhymed with “tra?tre,” he might have selected another messenger. However, the surgeon came, concerned but unsuspicious, and, assisted by M. Chassin, did his unpleasant work with reasonable speed and deftness, producing at the end of it what he vaguely termed a “projectile” from a region of M. de Kersaint’s forearm which, on the contrary, he described with much exactitude. And while he was binding up the arm in question the Abbé quietly annexed the bullet—“as a souvenir,” he said.
But someone else seemed to be souvenir-hunting that morning. Not long after the Abbé had left his patient to repose and had established himself again in the outer room with his reflections and his breviary, the Comte de Brencourt appeared there.
“Is it out satisfactorily?” he enquired.
“Quite,” replied the priest. “A painful business; but nothing, mercifully, appears to be permanently injured. Yet the surgeon tells me that our leader”—he stressed the words a little—“came very near never having the use of his sword-arm again.”
The Comte looked grave. To do him justice, he had desired last night to kill, not to maim.
“The curious thing,” went on the priest, “is that the bullet is a pistol bullet, though last night M. de Kersaint distinctly said that his assailant shot him with a musket.”
“No, no! The man had a pistol,” said M. de Brencourt. “The Marquis was mistaken.”
“Obviously the man had a pistol,” agreed M. Chassin with serenity. “And not an army pistol either.”
The Comte met his look. “I should rather like to see that bullet,” he observed.
“No doubt,” thought the Abbé, twiddling it in his pocket. “But you are not going to.” And as he made no audible reply to this suggestion the enquirer had to let the subject drop.
“To turn to another question, Abbé,” he said, sitting down, “one has not yet had opportunity to congratulate you on your wonderful success. Allow me to do so now—most heartily.”
“You are generous, Monsieur le Comte,” said the priest, reaching round to place his breviary on the table, and not seeming to notice the proffered hand. “I thank you all the more. Another person ought by rights, however, to be included in your congratulations.”
“Who—not Roland de Céligny, surely?”
“No. His friend the concierge—your friend the concierge.”
“Why do you call her my friend?” asked the Comte with a frown. “She was certainly de Céligny’s, but in no sense mine.”
“No? Well, my friend the concierge, then,” said the priest with a little smile.
De Brencourt’s heart was beating to suffocation as he looked at him. Now, surely, he should learn whether to M. Chassin she were more than a concierge—the main purpose with which he had sought this interview.
“Yes, she was of the greatest service to me,” resumed the priest, “although, indeed, she gave me no active assistance. Poor woman, she had had a sad history.”
“Did she tell it to you?” demanded the Comte quickly.
“Oh, one did not need to be told it,” replied the Abbé.
But the look of relief which at that most palpably appeared on the Comte’s features had the briefest stay there conceivable, for the aum?nier went on to say meditatively, “I am glad to think that I was able to make her some recompense. You remember the ruby necklace mentioned in the plan, Monsieur le Comte?”
“You are not going to say that you gave her that!” exclaimed his companion, starting up in his chair.
“Ah, I see you think it an excessive reward?” commented the Abbé, looking at him enquiringly. “So did M. le Marquis, I fancy, when I told him. But come now, Monsieur le Comte, do you not think that it really was no more than her due, that if ever woman had a right to it, she had . . . and that if M. de Kersaint knew all he would say the same?”
But the Comte was quite speechless. The piercing little eyes held his, and he could feel them boring into his very soul. “If ever woman had a right to it” . . . “if M. de Kersaint knew all.” The Abbé knew—he knew! He would never have given her the necklace else. Had he told the Duc yet?
“Of course,” went on the priest in a lowered tone, lowering that uncomfortable gaze also till it rested on his blunt fingers outspread on his knees, “had there been a Duchess of the house living I should not have felt justified in giving so valuable an heirloom to a concierge. But, under the sad circumstances, I hold that I was absolved, do not you, Monsieur le Comte?”
Oh, curse his maddening and mysterious persistence! Was he playing with him, or was he ignorant after all?
“That is not for me to say,” muttered the Comte thickly. “The matter concerns M. de Kersaint.”
“Very true. Everything about Mme Vidal more nearly concerns M. de Kersaint than anybody else.” He seemed to wait for the Comte to agree or else to ask why, but the Comte could bring out neither assent nor query.
“Since he is most interested in the treasure,” finished the Abbé with an amicable air of explaining his statement. “And, speaking of that treasure, Monsieur le Comte, I feel sure that by now you have penetrated the disguise. The cloak was bound to sit rather awkwardly after—you know what I mean.” He looked at him again.
M. de Brencourt changed colour. “Disguise? Whose disguise? No, I do not know what you mean!” There was sharp alarm in his tone; whither was this tending?
“Whose disguise?” repeated the priest. “Why, surely, there is only one disguise in question?” He waited a second and then went on, “The Marquis has perhaps told you himself who he is?”
“No, he has not!” returned M. de Brencourt angrily. “And I do not wish to learn any secrets, if you please, Abbé!” For if he could carry it off with the Abbé and the outside world in general that he had never known who de Kersaint really was, how could he be blamed for not having told him that his wife was alive?
“Very well said, Monsieur le Comte,” remarked M. Chassin in a tone of commendation. “And if I were not sure that, like myself, you know already, I would not speak to you of the identity of M. de Kersaint and the Duc de Trélan.”
“But for Heaven’s sake do not speak to me of their identity!” cried the Comte, his head reeling as he saw this knowledge being openly thrust upon him. “How do I know—or care—who he is!”
“I am afraid I have done it now,” said the priest placidly “but only because I was sure you had guessed it.”
“How could you be sure?” growled the other. “Did—surely he did not tell you? Only last night he asked me to respect his confidence!”

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