LaForge paused, and sipped his tea.

“I had loved her for years, of course; but I could not hope for her heart in return. I was nothing — my estates had been seized, my patrimony hidden. I was not the Comte de la Forge, as I should have been, but a man of science labouring in obscurity. All seemed well, once I returned to my aunt's household; but then my uncle was killed at Jena not three months later.

“Genevieve was determined to see in his death a vengeful murder. She could not believe that her father must fall like any soldier in batde; the cannonball that sundered his frame must have been sent with diabolic purpose. It was her fault, she believed, that her papa lay dead; he had been crushed by a ghoul who was determined to have her virtue.”

“Another reader of horrid novels,” Frank murmured in my ear.

“I did not comprehend the depths of my Genevieve's despair. The Emperor paid a call of condolence upon his return to Paris; he kissed my cousin's hand, and uttered phrases of comfort for her ears alone. Later I learned the import of his words: since my uncle had died without a son, his fortune was entirely forfeit to the state, and my aunt and cousin would be thrown into the street. Unless, of course, Genevieve could find some way of earning her bread …

“She came to me that night and begged me to take her from Paris. She would go anywhere I liked, as long as we were far from the Emperor's clutches. She had not reckoned, however, with my sense of honour: I could not abandon my uncle's fortune to the rogue, without attempting to fight. I told her I would contest the forfeit of the estate, on behalf of my widowed aunt and Genevieve; we would try what the law might do. Later, while the household slept, Genevieve threw herself from her bedroom window.”

“How horrible!” I exclaimed.

LaForge stared at me, his eyes implacable now. “I had no love for the Empire. It had cost me all that was dear. But I could take my revenge. My uncle had long been intimate with the Emperor's closest counsels. He knew all of Napoleon's plans, his perfidious intentions with regard to Europe. It was within my grasp to hand these to the only power capable of crushing the Monster: the Crown of England.

“I returned to the Sorbonne and requested the aid of a person I shall not name — a fellow man of science, who knew a good deal of British politics. He sent a message to your Admiralty, which has always been in command of certain funds disbursed for the purpose of buying information. I did not require recompense. I required the satisfaction of seeing the Monster's ambitions thwarted wherever he turned. I waited a few weeks in apprehension and impatience, and at last I was instructed how to act I must take my uncle's maps and papers, and embark upon an expedition of science — a survey of the flora native to the Pyrenees. While thus employed, I must cross over the mountains into Portugal and make my way by degrees to the coast. An English ship would await me there.”

“Except that your message was intercepted,” suggested Frank, “and instead of a British ship, you were collected by the Manon”

“Indeed. You know it all. I was seized by Porthiault himself and locked into a cabin, without so much as a word to the Manon's crew. I feared the worst — my plot exposed, my uncle's name besmirched, his fortune confiscated, and my aunt degraded. My trial and execution would prove a sensation; but of that I thought nothing. I believe my most bitter sensation was one of regret. I had intended to avenge the death of Genevieve — and I had failed.”

“And then Seagrave attacked,” my brother said.

“—Barely six hours after I was pulled off Corunna! One of the first British balls destroyed the wall of the cabin in which I was held; I freed myself from my bonds, dashed out onto the deck, and was handed a weapon as a matter of course by the frenzied crew. I used it to despatch Captain Porthiault; he was the only man on board ship who knew the truth of my crimes. Then I descended to the cockpit hold, and made myself useful in attending to the wounded who collected there, for the Manon had sailed without a surgeon.”

LaForge set down his teacup with an air of finality.

“I believe we understand the rest,” said Mr. Hill.

Jeb Hawkins stood and extended his hand. “I should like the honour of shaking yours, mon-sewer, as a cool-headed cove and no mistake.”

The Frenchman smiled faintly, and grasped the Bosun's Mate's paw.

“But, Monsieur LaForge,” I attempted, “would you suggest that the Admiralty intended for Captain Seagrave to take you off Corunna? And that the interception of your communications by Captain Porthiault was merely a dreadful mistake — the engagement of the Manon an extraordinary piece of luck on your part — and the whole episode of Chessyre's treachery a matter of happenstance, rather than design?”

The Frenchman studied my face. “That is how it appears, mademoiselle, does it not?”

“Did the Admiralty possess any intelligence of your seizure?” I persisted. “Could they have known, at the event, that you were taken by the French?”

“I must think it unlikely.”

“You made no attempt, while a prisoner at Wool House, to reveal your identity to the authorities — beyond this vague plea for sanctuary on British shores.”

“I feared a spy in the Admiralty,” LaForge said quietly. “Few persons were aware of my existence or plans. It was possible, I thought, that my friend at the Sorbonne had been betrayed — that he had broken under the methods of Napoleon's police — but it was equally possible that an English traitor had exposed me. Silence, and caution, appeared the only guarantors of safety. But when I heard of Miss Austen's anxiety for Seagrave — of the court-martial and its terreurs — I saw an opportunity to bargain. That much I might do.”.

A silence fell — a silence heavy with indecision and doubt

“We must regard the sealed orders as entirely above-board,” Frank said abruptly. “Sir Francis Farnham should be unlikely to risk the life of an agent — particularly one bearing such vital information — merely to despatch a jealous rival. I cannot believe that even so arrogant a man would place his affairs before those of King and Country.”

“Nor can I,” agreed Mr. Hill.

“Unless,” countered LaForge delicately, “Sir Francis betrayed the Grown long ago. He is perfectly positioned, is he not, to play havoc with the Emperor's enemies?”

Frank's eyes widened; the idea of such perfidy — such conscious working at deceit — was utterly new and repugnant to him; he must recoil, he must refuse the knowledge. I thought fleetingly of my cynical friend, Lord Harold Trowbridge; not for him the innocence of a post captain. He should have weighed and considered the Baronet's guilt long before.

“We cannot determine whether Sir Francis is capable of both murder and high treason on the evidence of this man alone,” said Mr. Hill, as though privy to my inmost thoughts. “What remains for us is to guard his life and the secrets he holds. Where, if I may ask, are your uncle's documents now, Monsieur LaForge?”

“Where they have been for the past six weeks,” he calmly replied. “In the hollow interior of my walking-stick. Do you have it still?”

Without a word, Mr. Hill rose and went to a cupboard near the hearth at the rear of the room. He withdrew a slender parcel wrapped in white cloth, and unwrapped it reverently.

“The catch is designed to open at my hand,” observed LaForge, turning the stick dexterously in his elegant fingers. “I do not believe the Marines of Wool House have even considered of it. There!”

The silver knob fell off into his palm, and a tight roll of yellowed papers slid from the tube. “If you will guarantee me safe passage to London, I shall carry the papers there myself.”

“London!” said Frank, with an eye for Mr. Hill. “That is bearing the viper straight to Sir Francis's breast.”