beast!  A contest at once magnificent and appalling--one which you will
remember to the end of your days, a spectacle to describe to your
children and to your children's children--"

[Illustration:  "Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure which
had slowly wedged through the crowd."]

"John Markham!" Olga's voice sounded shrilly in English.  "Stop howling
at once and listen to me."

"_Oui, Mademoiselle_, ten sous, if you please.  The performance is
about to begin and--"

"This performance has been going on quite long enough.  What on earth
are you doing here in Alenon?"

"Barking," said Markham with a grin.  "Also doing crayon portraits at
two francs fifty a head," and he pointed to the sign beside the poster
of Cleofonte breaking the chains which advertised the nature of his
talents in glowing terms.  "My name is Philidor, Mademoiselle," bowing;
"itinerant portrait painter--at your service."

"Oh, do stop that nonsense and explain--"

"There's nothing to explain.  Here I am.  That's all."

"How did you get here--to Alenon?"

"Walked--it's my custom."

"Rom Rouen?"

He nodded.  "I'm a member of the Troupe Fabiani of Strolling Acrobats,"
he laughed.  "I'm learning the gentle art of bear-baiting.  Won't you
come in?"

She searched his face keenly and accepted his invitation, first handing
him her fifty centime piece, which he dropped without comment into his
pocket.  The enclosure was already filled, so he closed the entrance
flap and mounted guard over it--and Olga stood beside him, her glance
passing swiftly from one object to another.  Cleofonte's bout with
Tomasso was more than usually dramatic, but her eyes roved toward the
dressing tent, eyeing with an uncommon interest the Signora when she
appeared.

"Your troupe is not large," Olga remarked when the program had been
explained to her.

"No, we are few, my dear Olga, but quite select.  You have yet to see
Luigi perform and the Child Wonder--and the _Femme Orchestre_--a
remarkable person who plays five instruments at the same time."

Olga watched the show for a while with an abstracted air.

"You surely can't mean that you enjoy this sort of thing?" she
questioned at last.

He laughed.  "I do mean just that--otherwise I shouldn't be here,
should I?"

"Oh, you're impossible!" she said impatiently.

"I know it," she laughed with a shrug, "and the worst of it is that I'm
quite shameless about it."

He was really an extraordinary person.  She couldn't help wondering how
it was that she could have cared for him at all, and yet she was quite
sure that he had never seemed more interesting to her than at this
moment.  But it was quite evident that she did not believe him.  The
performance was soon over, the people crowded toward the entrance,
Olga, alone at last, remaining.  Indeed, she was making herself very
much at home, and to Philidor's chagrin insisted upon examining the
Signora's knives and torches, the heavy weights of Cleofonte, the
chains and the larger fragments of the stone which Luigi had broken on
Cleofonte's chest.  It was all very interesting.  Then she sat upon a
bench, her glance still roving restlessly, lighting at last upon the
house wagon.

"And that," she indicated, "is where you sleep?"

"Not I.  That's for the women.  I sleep out when I can--indoors when I
must."

Still she gazed at it, and while Philidor, his inquietude rapidly
growing, watched her keenly, she rose and walked slowly around the
_roulette_, peering under it where the dogs lay chained, and up at its
small windows and door as though fascinated by a new and interesting
study of contemporary ethnology.

The active members of the Fabiani family had all retired to the
dressing tent and were occupied in the preliminaries to supper.
Philidor's mind was working rapidly, but, think as he would, nothing
occurred to him which might effectually serve to stem the tide of his
visitor's dangerous curiosity.  She paused before the door, looking
upward, and Philidor watched the window fearfully.

"It seems absurdly small for so many people.  A baby, too, you said?"
she asked coolly.

"Oh, yes, there are beds," he said; "two of them--quite comfortable, I
believe."

"I'm awfully anxious to see what it's like inside.  The Signora
wouldn't mind, I'm sure--"  She put one foot on the steps and reached
up for the knob.

It was locked he knew, for there was a key on the inside, but the
knowledge of that fact did nothing to decrease his alarm.

"Oh, I wouldn't bother," he muttered helplessly.  "There's nothing--"

But before he could move she had stepped up and with a quick movement
had flung the door wide open.

Philidor closed his eyes a second, praying for a miracle, then followed
Olga's gaze within.  The beds were there, the shelves of dishes, the
racks of clothing, but of Hermia there was no sign.  How the miracle
had happened Philidor knew not, unless she had gone through the roof,
but with the discovery his courage returned to him in a gush, and when
Olga's eyes keenly sought his face he was calmly smoking.  Just at this
moment a sound was heard, of merry, rippling laughter, light and
mocking, which had a familiar ring.  Olga looked around quickly toward
the spot behind her from which the sounds seemed to come, her gaze
meeting nothing but the canvas wall.  They heard the sounds again, this
time faintly, as though receding in the distance overhead.  It was most
extraordinary.  She glanced toward the dressing tent from which the
Signora was just emerging.

"Would you like to visit the green room?" asked Philidor, amusedly
directing the way.  "We are happy family, as you will see."

"Who was laughing, John Markham?" asked his visitor.

His eyes were blanks.

"Laughing?  I don't know.  Everyone laughs here.  Stella perhaps--or
the Circassian lady?"

She shook her head, still eyeing him narrowly, but he only smoked
composedly and, after looking into the tent, threw open the flaps with
a generous gesture and invited her to enter.  Cleofonte and Luigi were
counting their money, but when the title of their visitor was
announced, rose and bowed to the ground.  It was seldom that the
Fabiani family had been done so great an honor.

Olga returned his compliments with others quite as graceful upon the
quality of the performance she had witnessed, but her eyes, as Philidor
saw, were still roving carelessly but with nice observance of minuti¾,
taking in every object in sight.  Upon the ground in the corner where
it had been thrown lay a drum and cymbals fastened to a framework of
wire and straps.

Philidor grew unquiet.

"How curious!" she exclaimed, examining the contrivance.

"It is the music," put in the Signora pleasantly, "of our _Femme
Orchestre_.  She is ill.  We were forced to leave her yesterday at La
Mesle.  To-morrow she will play again.  The Contessa will hear her,
perhaps?"

Philidor breathed gratefully. A firmer hand than his now controlled
their destinies.  Olga searched the Signora's face, which was as
innocent as that of the _bambino_.

"_Grazia, Signora_," she returned politely; "perhaps I shall."

Philidor accompanied her to the gate, reassured and jocular.

"How long are you going to persist in this foolishness?" she asked at
last irritably.

"Who knows?" he laughed.  "I think I've struck my proper level.  Did
you see my posters?" he asked, pointing proudly.  "Great, aren't they?"

"They're disgusting," said Olga.

He smiled good-humoredly.  "That's too bad.  I'm sorry.  I thought
you'd like 'em."

She only shrugged contemptuously.

"And this is your Valhalla?" she sniffed.  "A kingdom of charlatans,
and tinsel and clap-trap, of fricassees and onions, and greasy
mendicants.  Ugh!  You're rather overdoing the simple life, Monsieur
er--Philidor.  You're very ragged and--ah--a trifle soiled."

"Outwardly only, _chre_ Olga," he laughed.  "Inwardly my soul is
lily-white."

"I'm not so sure of that.  No one's soul can be lily-white whose beard
is two weeks old.  Also, _mon ami_, you look half famished."

"My soul--" he began.

"Your stomach!" she broke in.  "Come with me.  At least I'm going to
see you properly fed."

"You're awfully kind, but--"

"You refuse?"

"I must--besides, you could hardly expect me to appear at your house
party in these."

She turned on her heel and walked away from him.

"I hardly expect you ever to do anything that I want you to do."

"But, Olga,--"

Without turning her head she disappeared in the crowd.


CHAPTER XX

THE EMPTY HOUSE

Markham stood for a moment watching the white plume of Olga Tcherny's
huge straw hat until it nodded its way out of sight.  Then he turned
back just in time to note a disturbance of the canvas barrier, from
under which, her slouch hat pushed down over her ears, her gray coat
hiding her finery, Hermia breathlessly emerged.

"I've never had such a fright since I was born," she laughed nervously.
"She won't come back?"

"I think not."

He helped her to her feet.  "It's lucky you weren't in the _roulotte_."

"Not luck--forethought.  I knew she'd never be content until she'd seen
the inside of that wagon.  She expected to find _me_ there."

"You!  She saw you--outside?"

"No--I'll take my oath on that--you see, I saw her first.  But she
expected to find me there just the same.  I can't tell you why--a woman
guesses these things.  I watched her.  She's a deep one."  She laughed
again.  "I wouldn't have her find me here for anything in the world."
She suddenly laid her hand on his arm.  "Philidor! we must go on--at
once."

"But you're tired--"

"I'd be in a worse plight if I were identified--by Olga."

He paused a moment, and then, pointing to the dressing tent, turned
swiftly and went out, examining the street between the booths, and
then, with a pretence of looking to the fastening of the uprights,
carelessly made the round outside the barrier.  An atmosphere of peace
pervaded the encampment and an odor of cooking food.  The crowd had
scattered and of Olga, or Olga's party, he saw nothing.

A wail went up in the dressing tent when Hermia announced her decision.
What should Cleofonte do without her?  It was she who attracted the
crowds--the eloquence of Monsieur Philidor which drew them within the
arena.  Never in their lives had the Fabiani family enjoyed such
success.  And now--that the Signor and Signora should go!  It was
unthinkable--unbelievable!  Cleofonte could not permit it.  But Yvonne
was obdurate.  There were reasons--the Signor would understand
that--which made this decision inevitable.  They must go--at once, as
soon as the night had fallen.

The first shock over, Cleofonte clasped his hands over his knees and
stared gloomily at the tent flap.  If the Signora could have stopped in
Alenon but two days more.  He, Cleofonte, would have paid ten francs
a performance--anything to keep them there.  Signora Fabiani moved
silently about her tasks, but her eyes were deep with wisdom.  What she
was thinking, Philidor knew not, nor did Yvonne set the matter
straight.  It was necessary to go--that was all.  It was very sad and
made Yvonne unhappy, but she had, unfortunately, no choice in the
matter.  When it was clearly to be seen that the decision was
unalterable, Cleofonte jingled his bag of coppers and sighed, Luigi
scowled at vacancy and Stella unreservedly wept.

"We could have made two thousand francs," muttered Cleofonte.

"More than that," said Luigi the silent, "three thousand."

"There will be no longer pleasure in the _dŽcarcasse_ when the music
ceases to play," sobbed Stella.

Yvonne put her arms around the child and kissed her gently.

"We shall meet again--soon, _cara mia_."

"I know--in Heaven," cried Stella, refusing to be comforted.

"We shall find you again, child, never fear," said Yvonne.

Stella's eyes brightened.  "Then you _will_ return?"

Yvonne patted her cheek softly.

"Have I not said I will see you again, _carissima_?" she finished.

After supper Philidor went forth and bought supplies which were packed
securely upon Clarissa, together with Philidor's knapsack and other
personal belongings.  Hermia changed her gay apparel for a shirtwaist
and dark skirt, and when dusk fell, after a reconnaissance by Luigi,
the back of the canvas barrier was raised and the trio quietly departed
and were swallowed up in the shadows of a back street.

The weather so far still favored them, but the night was murky and high
overhead the clouds were flying fast.  Their road, and they chose the
first one which led them forth of the town, wound up between a row of
hedges and pollard trees to an eminence form which, when they paused
for breath, they had a view of the lights of the town.  The _mange_
whirled and the barrel organ still wheezed its thin thread of sound
across the still air.  The _Homme Sauvage_ was roaring again and the
deep voice of Cleofonte, their late partner and companion, was heard at
intervals in his familiar plaint.  There was a fascination in the
lights and in the medley of noises--each of which had come to possess
an interest and a personality--for behind them were the pale road and
the inhospitable darkness.

"It seems a pity to leave them," said Hermia, thinking of Stella, "when
we were doing so well.  I shall regret the _roulotte_."

John Markham smiled.

"It's time we were moving, then," he said.  "Your true vagabond wants
no roots--even in a _roulotte_--nor regrets anything."

"I can't forgive Olga for this.  I consider her most intrusive,
impertinent--"

Markham had laid warning fingers upon her arm.  A moment ago on the
hill below them a man's figure had been in silhouette against the
lights.  At the sound of their voices it had suddenly disappeared.
They stood in silence for a moment, watching, but the figure did not
reappear.

"That was curious.  I was mistaken, perhaps," said Markham.  "Come, we
must go on."

They turned their backs resolutely to the light and in a moment had
passed over the brow of the hill and were alone under the wan light of
the darkening heavens.  They had not traveled by night before and the
obscurity closed in upon them shrouded in mystery.  But as they emerged
from beneath the trees their eyes became accustomed to the darkness and
they followed the road cheerfully enough, determined to put as many
kilometers as possible between themselves and the threatening white
plume of Olga Tcherny which seemed in the last few hours to have
achieved an appalling significance.  At first Markham had been disposed
to laugh at Hermia's fears.  What reason in the world could Olga have
had to suspect Hermia's share in his innocent pilgrimage?  Of his own
tastes she had of course been ready to believe anything, and he had had
ample proof that she thoroughly disapproved of his present mode of
living.  Nor was that a matter which could affect a great deal their
personal relations, which were already strained to the point of
tolerance.  But as to his companion--that was another affair.  He had
never understood the intuitions of women and thought them more often
shrewd guesswork in which they were as likely to be wrong as right.
But the more he considered what Hermia had said to him, the more
definite became the impression that Olga Tcherny had fallen upon some
clew to Hermia's whereabouts--that she had expected to find her--as
Hermia had said--in Cleofonte's house-wagon.  He knew something of Olga
and had a wholesome respect for her intelligence.  If it was to her
interest to prove Hermia his companion on this mad pilgrimage, it was
clearly to Hermia's interest to prove her own non-existence.  As Hermia
had suggested, her intrusiveness was impertinent, and Markham mentally
added the adjectives "ruthless" and "indecent."  He had been almost
ready to add "vengeful," but could not really admit, even to himself,
that she had anything to be vengeful about.

Whatever Hermia's further thoughts upon the subject, for the present
she kept them to herself.  They walked along as rapidly as Clarissa's
gait would allow, for the tiny beast, never precipitate at the best of
times, found the darkness little to her liking and pattered along with
evident reluctance, mindful of the truss of hay only half eaten which
she had left under Cleofonte's hospitable lights.

At a turn in the road Markham determined to verify his suspicions of a
while ago, and accordingly drew Clarissa among some bushes, and, stick
in hand, awaited the approach of the shadow which he was sure still
hung upon their trail.  Distant objects were dimly discernible, and
Markham had almost decided that he had been mistaken when the crackling
of a twig at no great distance advised him that in the shadow of the
hedge someone was approaching.  He remained quiet until a man slowly
emerged from the shadows, when he stepped quickly out of his hiding
place and confronted him.

Markham's six feet were menacing, and his pursuer stopped in his
tracks, eyeing Markham's stick, undecided as to whether it were the
best policy to face the thing out or take to his heels.  As Markham's
legs were longer than his, he chose the former and made a brave enough
show of indifference, though his tongue wagged uncertainly.

"_B-bon soir, Monsieur_," he stammered.  "_Il fait beau--_"

But Markham was in no mood to pass compliments upon the weather.

"What are you following me for?" he growled.

"Follow you, Monsieur?  I do not comprehend," said the man.

"I'll aid your understanding, then.  You followed us up the hill out of
Alenon.  I saw you.  Well, here I am.  What do you want?"

"The road of the Oire are free," he answered sullenly, gaining courage.

"Perhaps they are.  But no man with honest business slinks along the
hedges.  You go your way, do you hear?"

"The road of France are free," the man muttered again.

Markham quickly struck a match, and, before the man could turn away,
had looked into his face.  He wore the cap and blouse of a chauffeur
and his legs were encased in the black puttees of his craft.  Olga's
ambassador was unworthy of her.

"Well, you go back to those who sent you here and say with the
compliments of Monsieur Philidor that the roads of the Perche are
dangerous after dark.  I've every right to break your head, and if I
meet you again I'll do it.  _Comprenez_?"

The man eyed Markham's stick dubiously again and then, with a glance
toward the pair in the bushes, silently walked away.  They watched him
until he was lost in the shadows of the trees.

"You see," said Markham, "I was right.  But I can't understand it.  Why
should Olga--?"

Hermia was laughing softly.

"Don't tell me you're as stupid as _that_."

He took Clarissa by the halter and led the way into the road again.
"What do you mean?" he asked slowly.

"I mean, _mon ami_, that you have aroused in Olga's breast a dangerous
emotion.  She decided some time ago to marry you.  Didn't you know
that?  It's quite true.  She told me so."

"Told _you?_"

"Not in words.  Oh, no.  Olga never tells anything important to anyone.
But she told me so just the same.  I know."

"Nonsense.  She's a coquette.  I've always understood that, but to
_marry_--!"

"Precisely that--nothing else.  She's madly in love with you, my poor
friend.  She has never failed to bring a man to her feet when she made
up her mind to.  The deduction is obvious."

There was no need of daylight to see the expression on her companion's
face.  Hermia could read it in the dark.

"What you say is highly unimportant," he said with attempt at a smile.
"And because she desires to make me--er--her husband she employs
persons to follow me along the byways of France?"

"Oh, no.  Not to follow you, my friend.  _Me_.  You are merely the bone
of contention.  I am the impudent terrier who has interfered with the
peace of her repast."

"Impossible.  She doesn't even know you're out of Paris.  How _can_ she
know?"

"Now you're delving into the intricacies of the feminine mind--an
occupation to which you're as little suited as Clarissa--and she's a
woman.  You must take my word for it.  Olga has often amazed me by the
accuracy of her intuitions.  I have imagined that where her own
interests were involved they would be nothing short of miraculous.  She
is quite as sure that I am your companion moment as though she had seen
me in the Signor Cleofonte's _roulotte_."

"Then if she is so sure," he asked with excellent logic, "why should
she make so much bother about it?"

Hermia laughed.  "The mere fact that she _is_ making a bother about it
is significance in itself.  She'll find me if she can and confront me
with the damning fact of your presence in my society."

"And precious little good that would do her," he put in rather brutally.

"Or me," said Hermia gravely.  "Hell hath no hatred--_et cetera_.
You've spurned her, Philidor,--in spirit, if not in letter.  Get her
the chance and she will pillory me in the market-place."

Markham went along in silence, his earlier impressions confirmed by
argument, sure that the chance of discovery must be avoided at all
hazards.  A watch of the road had revealed no sign of the stealthy
chauffeur, but that argued nothing.  He was an obstinate little animal,
evidently quite capable, since his discomfiture, of following the
adventure through to its end.  They must outmaneuver him.  Presently
Markham discovered what he had been looking for--a path hardly
perceptible in the darkness, which led through the bushes and promised
immunity.  They followed it silently, pausing for a while to listen for
sounds of pursuit, and at last, with minds relieved, if not quite
certain, plodded on into the obscurity.  They had entered, it seemed,
an aisle of a forest which stretched, darkly impenetrable, on either
side.  Before them, blackness, darkness within dark, like a cave, a
smell of dampness like a dungeon.  The sky lightened for a moment and
they saw the shape of leaves and tree fronds far above them like a
pattern on a carpet--a pattern which changed with elflike witchery, for
a wind had blown up and sounded about them with the roar of a distant
sea, rising now and then in a mighty crescendo, like the boom of a
nearer wave upon the shore.  The tree tops swayed and joined in the
splendid diapason.  Nature breathed deeply.

Markham led the way, his hand upon Clarissa's bridle, peering along
their slender trail, while Hermia, all her senses keenly alive to the
witchery of the night, followed closely, casting timorous glances over
her shoulder into the murky gloom, in which she fancied she could
discern the shapes of pursuers.  Once thinking she had heard a sound
behind her, she caught Markham's arm and they stopped, breathless, and
listened, but they heard nothing in the rushing blackness but the
complaint of an owl and the crash of a dead limb at a distance to their
right.  A drop of rain fell on Markham's hand.  Their prospect was not
pleasant.  Markham struck a match under his coat and looked at his
watch.  It was one o'clock.  They had been walking for four hours.  He
tried to focus his eyes upon the blackness.  This path must lead
somewhere--a shed even would serve them if it rained harder.  The brief
glimpse he had of Hermia's face showed it pale and dark-eyed with a
look he had never discovered in it before, not of fear, for fear he had
begun to believe was foreign to her.  The light had cut them off for a
moment from the rest of the world, or rather had made more definite the
little world of their own, but Hermia's eyes still peered over her
shoulder, distended and alert.  She was on the defensive, ready for
headlong flight, like a naiad startled.

"I'm sorry, Hermia.  You're dead tired--aren't you?"

"Yes, I--I am--a little," she said quietly.

"We've traveled almost far enough.  We must have come a mile at least
into this forest.  It seems limitless."

He peered about, taking a few steps forward along the path, which
widened here.  The trees, too, were further apart, and a larger patch
of the windy sky was visible.  Hermia followed, guiding the donkey.
They emerged into a glade, their road not well defined, and made out
against the trees beyond a rectangular bulk of gray.  Markham went
forward more briskly, his spirits rising.  Providence was kind to them.
A house!  A house in France, he had discovered, meant hospitality.
To-night, at least, it meant a shelter from the rain which now pattered
crisply upon the dry leaves of a forgotten autumn.  A small affair it
was, a keeper's or a forester's lodge of one story only, with a small
shed or stable at the side.  There were no lights, but that was
reasonable enough.  French country folk made no pretence of
entertaining visitors at such early hours of the morning.  As they
approached the building the matter of its occupancy seemed open to
question, for the closed windows stared blankly at the leaden sky.  An
eloquent shutter hung helplessly from its hinges and weeds ranged
riotously about the front door, near which a wooden bench lay
overturned.  While Hermia waited under a tree Markham walked slowly
around the house, returning presently with the information that its
rear confirmed the impression of desertion.  But to make the matter
certain he walked to the door and vigorously clanged the knocker.
Hollow echoes, but no other sound.  He knocked again; to his surprise
the door yielded to the touch of his shoulder and creakily opened.

"We'll go in, I think," he laughed.  And, leaving the patient donkey
for the moment to her fate, he led the way indoors.  A match illumined
for a moment the hallway, showing a ladder-like stair to a trap door
above, and then, sputtering faintly in the musty air, went out.  Since
matches were scarce, he deftly made a torch of a paper from his pocket
with better success.  A brief glance into the room at their left showed
signs of recent occupancy.  His quick survey marked an oil lamp in the
corner, which, upon investigation, proved to be in working order, so he
lit it with the end of his expiring taper.

The room was handsomely paneled in white.  There was a couch in the
corner, a rug upon the floor and several easy chairs were drawn
sociably toward the chimney breast; along one wall was a gun-rack and
in the center of the room a table with a litter of magazines, a box of
cigars, a decanter of wine and some glasses.

Their appraisal concluded, they faced each other blankly.  Then Markham
laughed.

"I wonder what's the punishment for poaching in France," he said gaily.

Hermia dropped wearily upon the couch.

"I'm sure I don't know--or care in the least," she sighed.  "I'll go to
prison willingly in the morning if they'll only let me sleep now.  I'm
tired.  I didn't know I could ever be so tired."

Markham glanced at her and then quickly poured out a glass of wine,
brought it to her, and in spite of her protests made her drink.

"Stolen," she muttered between sips.

"It's no less useful because of that," he said, coolly helping himself.
"It's medicine--for both of us.  We've had eighteen hours to-day.
_Salut_, Yvonne!  We'll pay for it some day."

"To whom?"

"To the chap who owns this lodge--a man of taste, a good Samaritan and
a gentleman, if a mere vagabond may be a judge of Amontillado."  He
finished the glass at a gulp and set it upon the table.  From her couch
she watched him as he opened the windows and closed and fastened the
shutters.  Then he went outside and she heard him pottering around in
the rain with Clarissa, undoing the pack and bringing it into the
house, and leading the donkey off in the direction of the shed.

"An excellent man, our host," he laughed from the doorway.  "Clarissa
is up to her ears in hay."

He dripped with moisture, and, mindful of the furniture, took off his
coat and hat and shook them in the hall.

"Now, child, we're snug.  It's raining hard.  No one would venture here
in such a night.  You must sleep--at once."

"What will you do?" she asked drowsily.

"I'm perishing for a smoke.  You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, no,--but you must--must sleep--too.  I'm--very tired--very--"  The
words trailed off into mumbling, and before he could fill his pipe she
was breathing deeply.

He got up and laid her coat over her feet and then stood beside her,
his soul in his eyes, watching.

"Poor little madcap," he whispered; "mad little--sad little madcap."

He bent over her tenderly, with a longing to smooth away the tired
lines at her eyes with caresses, to take her in his arms and soothe her
with gentleness.  She seemed very small, very slender, too small, too
childish to have raised such a tempest in the deeper currents of his
spirit, and he groped forward, his fingers trembling for the touch of
her.

He straightened with a sigh.  He could not and he knew it; for she
trusted him and trust in him was her defence, a valiant one even
against his tenderness.  It had always been one of the hardest burdens
he had to bear.  He watched her a while longer, then turned away and
sank into a chair by the table, soberly lit his pipe and smoked, his
eyes roving.  There were colored prints upon the wall, well chosen ones
of deer and fox hunters in full chase; upon the table an ash tray of
Satsuma ware and several books.  He took up the one nearest him, a
volume on big game hunting, and turned the pages idly.  Their
unconscious and unwilling host took his sports seriously, it seemed.
He dropped the book upon his knees, and as he did so it fell open at
the fly leaf, upon which in a feminine scrawl a name was inscribed.  He
read it with surprise and concern.  "Madeleine de Cahors!"  Olga
Tcherny's Norman friend--who lived--

Alenon!  What a dolt he was!  This was the forest of