I was staring at Lucas in thick bewilderment. The man was transformed from the one I knew. At M. le Duc's he had been pale, nervous, and shaken—senselessly and contemptibly scared, as I thought, since he was warned of the danger and need not face it. But now he was another man. I can think only of those lanterns I have seen, set with coloured glass. They look dull enough all day, but when the taper within is lighted shine like jewels. So Lucas now. His face, so keen and handsome of feature, was brilliant, his eyes sparkling, his figure instinct with defiance. A smile crossed his face.
"Aye," he answered evenly, "it is Lucas."
M. le Comte appeared to be in a state of stupor. He could not for a space find his tongue to demand:
"How, in the name of Heaven, come you here?"
"To fight Grammont," Lucas answered at once.
"A lie!" I shouted. "You're Grammont's friend. You came here to warn him off. It's your plot!"
"Félix! The plot?" Yeux-gris cried.
"The plot's to murder Monsieur. Martin let it out. I thought it was you and Grammont. But it's Lucas and Grammont!"
Lucas hesitated. Even now he debated whether he could not lie out of it. Then he burst into laughter.
"It seems the cat's out of the bag. Aye, M. le Comte de Mar, I came to warn Grammont off. The duke will be here straightway. How will you like to swing for parricide?"