"I detest you," said Castrillon; "I hate the sight of you."
Isidore blubbered aloud, and accepted the information as a turn for the better in the tide of his master's wrath.
"Well, if you must know, it was Signor Mudara."
"Mudara? Then Mudara wrote it. I'll wring his neck."
"I'll wring his neck, too--if he has tried any of his games on me," sobbed Isidore. "But it may not be a game. You are always so hasty."
Castrillon read the letter through once more.
"I can't believe that she wrote it," he said. "I'll swear she didn't."
"Because the style is not in keeping with her character, blockhead! She does not ask me--or any one else--to visit her at two o'clock in the morning."
A revolting smile made the valet's loose-hanging, sullen lips quiver with emotion.
"No, that is not Madame's style. She is too clever. But does that affect the opportunity!"
"You have the letter. It is for Madame herself to deny the handwriting--not you. Why should you, of all people, think it a joke? Why not act upon it? Why not ask her what it means?"
"At two in the morning? I have no wish to compromise Madame--not the least. She is too rich to compromise. She is the sort of lady one marries. Tell Mudara, with my compliments, he must understand gentlemen before he can play successful tricks upon them."
"I will take my oath that I am not sure it is a trick," answered Isidore.
Castrillon studied the letter for a third time.
"Here and there," he said, "it has the ring of her voice, and the words are the words she uses."
"With such a justification in my pocket, I know what I should do," mumbled Isidore.
"So do I. But you are the scum of the earth, and what you would, or wouldn't do, could only interest the hangman."
The Marquis locked the note in his dressing-case, and handed his keys, with his usual simplicity, to Isidore.
"I do not propose to tire myself with this nonsense before the play," said he. "Get my raw eggs and milk."