"If it be not too late," murmured Morice bitterly.
Michael held out his hand.
"At least we are comrades together," he replied, with one of those winning smiles which transformed the dark grimness of his face. "And Trouet is not here yet."
"But he is on his way."
"Yes, and I do not think he is far off. Denningham"—he glanced down at the dead man—"was to have played the Marquis."
"Was that his own idea?"
"Ah! I wonder. It did not occur to me. Perhaps——"
"It is possible that Trouet has already been here."
"The girl Olérie told me there were two."
"Denningham—and Sir Stephen."