of terror. A few words from one of the men told him that a far other result than that which he had expected had followed the meeting of the enemies, and Aventayle, made yet more willing to be spared a terrible sight, gladly accepted the thought that he had better be the first to break the truth to Laura.
But she was gone.
“Had she been told?” asked Aventayle, hurriedly.
“Madame knows all, sir!” said, respectfully, a young man who came up to the Englishman. “The young person who was with her has conducted her home,” added Silvain.
“That was kind and right,” answered Aventayle, and he turned towards the house, and wished that Hawkesley would descend.
“Monsieur is a friend of Madame Lygon,” said Silvain, earnestly.
“At least of her family—of Mr. Hawkesley.”
“So I am informed; and it would be kind if Monsieur would deign to favour me with a few minutes of conversation.”
Aventayle instantly assented; and Silvain, leaving a message for Mr. Hawkesley, the charge of which was instantly taken by half a dozen in the crowd, led the Englishman away to some distance.
Silvain briefly explained his acquaintance with the family upon whom this fearful misfortune had come, and if Aventayle had been in the mood for suspicion, the young Frenchman’s manner would have dispelled any doubt as to his loyalty. He spoke with little restraint, and as one who considered his being aware of many painful circumstances was not now a fact to be apologised for, more serious affairs being pressing.
“I was desired to tell your friend what I am about to tell you, Monsieur, but it was afterwards thought that I might more properly confide it to yourself, to be again mentioned to him at such time as you may think best.”
“I will do so,” said Aventayle. “My God! what has happened? That man, whom I saw in all his health and strength in the court of the hotel, and now!”
“We may die for glory, we may die for duty,” said Silvain, “but it is hard to die in vain, as that brave man has done.”
“We have no right to say that of any death,” said Aventayle, after a pause. “But these police, will they hunt down the murderer, or will they let him escape? and the people, why are they not encouraged to join in the hunt? Surely he has not had time to get far away.”
“He will not escape,” replied Silvain, “but the police will have their own way. Will Monsieur pardon me if I ask him to attend, for a short time, to what concerns the welfare of the living rather than revenge for the dead?”
“Go on—I will do my best to bear what you say in mind. But I feel as if I had in some way been mixed up with this fearful business, and I am scarcely a free agent.”
“We ought all to feel thus when a crime against society has been committed,” said Silvain, who had read some books, and remembered something of what was in them. “But the crime will be punished, in the meantime let us attend to ourselves.”
They walked on as he spoke, and quite beyond observation of those who had collected, and were rapidly collecting in the avenue.
“I would not speak much of the painful business which has brought you, Monsieur, and your friends to France,” said Silvain, “but as I am to make you completely understand, I must suppose that you know that the person who is, doubtless, the assassin of M. Urquhart, had a secret which involved the reputation of two ladies. One of them is now a widow,” he added, pointing in the direction of the house, “the other I need not name.”
“I know all this—more than I desire to know.”
“But is Monsieur aware of the business which brought the man Adair this day to Versailles?”
“I have some knowledge of it,” said Aventayle. “And I have reason to know that he was supposed to be about to rush into a very great peril, and that it was certainly not thought that he would leave that house alive.”
Silvain’s face assumed a warning expression.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but that is far more than any man should say to any other man when such an event has happened. I will consider it not said, but Monsieur will do well to be guarded. I will only assume that it is understood that this Adair had a very important object in view when he came to the house of the late M. Urquhart.”
“That I know nothing about.”
“It was so, and I am to inform you of the circumstances, in order that M. Hawkesley may know them. Adair had in his possession a volume of letters which he produced to the unfortunate man whom he has slain, and these letters are the fatal evidence against the lady who—who is now dwelling in Versailles.”
“Had in his possession, you say. Do you mean that he has not now got them?”
“That is the point to which I am coming, Monsieur. This Adair, of whom I cannot speak with too much abhorrence, was an agent of the police, and may still consider himself so; I have reason to believe that he so deludes himself. That he was so, however, is certain, and equally certain that he was for a long time here at Versailles, at which time, though he did not know it, he was as vigilantly watched as any person upon whom he had been ordered to keep his eyes. I myself had a share in observing him.”
“Another agent of police,” said Aventayle, drawing back involuntarily.
“Nothing of the kind, Monsieur,” said Silvain, with some dignity. “In my own interest, and to repay certain wrongs, I availed myself in the single case of this man of certain offers that were made to me, but it was in this case only, and I shall never again undertake such a duty. When I tell Monsieur that I am about to marry an Englishwoman, he will probably receive my word as to the police question.”
“Yes,” said Aventayle, bluntly, “I do not believe that an honest English girl would marry a damned spy, and I beg your pardon.”
“There is no offence, Monsieur,” said Silvain, quietly. “I was about to say that Adair finally
