The hall was dim, almost dark, the only light coming from the open doorway on the right.  Whether he wished or no, Monsieur Chatelard was forced to advance into the range of the doorway; and once there, he found himself pushed unceremoniously into the room.

It was a large, cool room, lined with bookcases.  Near the middle stood an oblong table covered with green felt and supporting an old brass lamp.  Four people were in the room, besides the two new-comers.  Aleck Van Camp was on a low step-ladder, just in the act of handing down a book from the top shelf.  Near the step-ladder two women were standing, with their backs toward the door.  Both were in white, both were tall, and both had abundant dark hair.  One of the French windows leading out on to the porch was open, and just within the sill stood the man from Charlesport.

“Here’s a wonderful book—­a rare one—­the record of that famous Latin controversy,” Aleck was saying, when he became conscious of the entrance of Chamberlain and a stranger.

“Ah, hello, Chamberlain, that you?” he cried.  Agatha and Melanie, turning suddenly to greet Chamberlain, simultaneously encountered the gimlet-gaze of Chatelard.  It was fixed first on Melanie, then on Agatha, then returned to Melanie with an added increment of rage and bafflement.  But he was first to find tongue.

“So!” he sneered.  “I find you after all, Princess Auguste Stephanie of Krolvetz!  Consorting with these—­these swine!”

Melanie looked at him keenly, with hesitating suspicions.  “Ah!  Duke Stephen’s cat’s-paw!  I remember you—­well!” But before the words were fairly out of her mouth, Agatha’s voice had cut in: 

“Mr. Van Camp, that is he!  That is he!  The man on the Jeanne D’Arc!”

“We thought as much,” answered Chamberlain.  “That’s why he is here.”

“We only wanted your confirmation of his identity,” said the man who had been standing by the window, as he came forward.  “Monsieur Chatelard, you are to come with me.  I am the sheriff of Charlesport County, and have a warrant for your arrest.”

As the sheriff advanced toward Chatelard, the cornered man turned on him with a sound that was half hiss, half an oath.  He was like a panther standing at bay.  Aleck turned toward Melanie.

“It seems that you know this man, Melanie?”

“Yes, I know him—­to my sorrow.”

“What do you know of him?”

“He is the paid spy of the Duke Stephen, my cousin.  He does all his dirty work.”  Melanie laughed a bit nervously as she added, turning to Chatelard:  “But you are the last man I expected to see here.  I suppose you are come from my excellent cousin to find me, eh?  Is that the case?”

Chatelard’s eyes, resting on her, burned with hate.  “Yes, your Highness.  I am the humble bearer of a message from Duke Stephen to yourself.”

“And that message is—?”