Lecoq’s head whirled. “Her granddaughter!” he stammered.
“Yes—the daughter of her deceased son, if you prefer it.”
“How old is the marchioness, then?”
“At least sixty: but one would never suspect it. She is one of those persons who live a hundred years. And what an old wretch she is too. She would think no more of knocking me over the head than I would of emptying this glass of wine—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Lecoq, “but does she live alone in that great house?”
“Yes—that is—with her granddaughter, the governess, and two servants. But what is the matter with you?”
This last question was not uncalled for; for Lecoq had turned deadly white. The magic edifice of his hopes had crumbled beneath the weight of this man’s words as completely as if it were some frail house of cards erected by
