beneath the mystery. Here was an adventure such as he had often imagined. But as yet he held no key to it, for no word was spoken while he sat with his impenetrable companions.

In an hour’s time David perceived through the window that the vehicle traversed the street of some town. Then it stopped in front of a closed and darkened house, and a postilion alighted to hammer impatiently upon the door. A latticed window above flew wide and a night-capped head popped out.

“Who are ye that disturb honest folk at this time of night? My house is closed. ’Tis too late for profitable travellers to be abroad. Cease knocking at my door, and be off.”

“Open!” spluttered the postilion, loudly; “open for Monseigneur the Marquis de Beaupertuys.”

“Ah!” cried the voice above. “Ten thousand pardons, my lord. I did not know—the hour is so late—at once shall the door be opened, and the house placed at my lord’s disposal.”

Inside was heard the clink of chain and bar, and the door was flung open. Shivering with chill and apprehension, the landlord of the Silver Flagon stood, half clad, candle in hand, upon the threshold.

David followed the marquis out of the carriage. “Assist the lady,” he was ordered. The poet obeyed. He felt her small hand tremble as he guided her descent. “Into the house,” was the next command.

The room was the long dining-hall of the tavern. A great oak table ran down its length. The huge gentlemen seated himself in a chair at the nearer end. The lady sank into another against the wall, with an air of great weariness. David stood, considering how best he might now take his leave and continue upon his way.

“My lord,” said the landlord, bowing to the floor, “h-had I ex-expected this honour, entertainment would have been ready. T-t-there is wine and cold fowl and m-m-maybe—”

“Candles,” said the marquis, spreading the fingers of one plump white hand in a gesture he had.

“Y-yes, my lord.” He fetched half a dozen candles, lighted them, and set them upon the table.

“If monsieur would, perhaps, deign to taste a certain Burgundy—there is a cask—”

“Candles,” said monsieur, spreading his fingers.

“Assuredly—quickly—I fly, my lord.”

A dozen more lighted candles shone in the hall. The great bulk of the marquis overflowed his chair. He was dressed in fine black from head to foot save for the snowy ruffles at his wrists and throat. Even the hilt and scabbard of his sword were black. His expression was one of sneering pride. The ends of an upturned moustache reached nearly to his mocking eyes.

The lady sat motionless, and now David perceived that she was young, and possessed of pathetic and appealing beauty. He was startled from the contemplation of her forlorn loveliness by the booming voice of the marquis.

“What is your name and pursuit?”

“David Mignot. I am a poet.”

The moustache of the marquis curled nearer to his eyes.

“How do you live?”