Grave, keen, penetrating, the Chevalier de Calembours bent forward and waited breathlessly the answer to this momentous question.
The great eyes of Margaret Walsingham still met his in a fascinated gaze; her electric face kept its spell-bound attention. With lips apart and bosom heaving she waited for the end of the story.
"Mademoiselle, shall I tell it you for one thousand pounds, or shall I go back to America, and bury the secret in oblivion?" asked the chevalier.
"Tell me all," breathed Margaret, faintly.
"Mademoiselle will remember my modest request?"
"Yes, yes, monsieur, I will pay you what you ask!" she cried, hysterically; "go on to the end."
"Milles mercis!" cried he, cheerfully, "mademoiselle is magnificent! Mademoiselle does not wish M. Mortlake to escape with his life?"
"No," shuddered Margaret, "he must not live."
"So perfidious!" aspirated the chevalier; "he stole St. Udo's history, he stole his identity, and then he stole his life. Fiendish Mortlake!"
"He shall die, monsieur, be content," groaned Margaret.