"Roland!" I said. The dog sprang up and came to me.
"Félix Broux!" Monsieur exclaimed, with his quick, warm smile—a smile no man in France could match for radiance.
I had no thought of kneeling, of making obeisance, of waiting permission to speak.
"Monsieur," I cried, half choked, "there is a plot—a vile plot to murder you!"
"Where? At St. Quentin?"
"No, Monsieur. Here in Paris. In the streets to-night, when you go to the king."
Monsieur sprang to his feet, his hand on his sword. Lucas turned white. Vigo swore. Monsieur cried:
"How, in God's name, know you that?"
"You have been betrayed, Monsieur. Your plan is known. You leave the house to-night, near a quarter of eleven, to go in secret to the king. You leave by the little door in the alley—"
"Diable!" breathed Vigo.