It was indeed none other than he whom I have before mentioned under the name of F. II, secretary of the league, conspirator by instinct and profession, by rank and name the Marquis de la Carrabasse.
“What are you doing here, my dear Marquis?” I exclaimed.
He regarded me with a fixed and searching expression.
“The hour is ripe,” he said. “The moment has come to strike! Here is my carriage. Come!”
For a moment I was too astonished to reply. Then, in a reasonable tone, I said:
“Pardon, Marquis, but I must first take leave of my hosts.”
“You cannot.”
“That is to be seen,” I replied, losing my temper a little.
Before I could make a movement the Marquis was covering me with a revolver, and from the corner of my eye I could see that the man who had first spoken to me had drawn one, too.
“Enter the carriage,” said the Marquis. “I do not trust you.”