"You—Félix Broux!"
I curled with shame.
"M. Lucas had struck me," I muttered; "I thought the fight was fair enough. And they threatened my life."
Monsieur's contemptuous eyes shrivelled me as flame shrivels a leaf.
"You—a Broux of St. Quentin!"
Lucas, who had watched me close all the while, as they all three did, said now:
"I believe he is a cheat, Monsieur. There is no plot. He has learned of your plan through the eavesdropper he speaks of and thinks to make credit out of a trumped-up tale of murder."
"No," answered Monsieur. "You may think that, Lucas, for he is a stranger to you. But I know him. He was a fool sometimes, but he was never dishonest. You used to be fond of me, Félix. What has happened to make you consort with my enemies?"
"Ah, Monsieur, I love you. I have always loved you," I cried. "I am not lying now, nor cheating you. There is a plot. I learned it and came straight to you, though I was under oath not to betray them."
"Then, in Heaven's name, Félix," burst out Vigo, "which side are you on?"