He looked down at her without replying. His eyes softened for a moment into a smile, but his lips remained grave.

"You deliberately set yourself," she continued, "to shatter one illusion after another. You have made me feel quite old and worldly to-night, and the worst of it is that you are invariably right. It is most annoying."

Her voice was only half-playful. There was a shade of sadness in it.

Christian must have divined her thoughts, for he said:

"Do not let us quarrel over Signor Bruno. I dare say I am wrong altogether."

She looked slowly round. Her eyes rested on the dark surface of the water, where the shadows lay deep and still; then she raised them to the trees, clearly outlined against the sky.

"I suppose that such practical, matter-of-fact people as you are proof against mere outward influences."

"So I used to imagine, but I am beginning to find that outward things are very important after all. In London it seemed only natural that every one should live in a hurry, with no time for thought, pushing forward and trying to outstrip their neighbours; but in the country it seems that things are different. Intellectual people live quiet, thoughtful, and even dreamy lives. They get through somehow without seeing the necessity for doing something--trying to be something that their neighbours cannot be--and no doubt they are happier for it. I am beginning to see how they are content to go on with their uneventful lives from year to year until the end even comes without a shock."

"But you yourself would never reach that stage, Christian."

"No, no, Hilda. I can understand it in others, but for me it is different. I have tasted too deeply of the other life. I should get restless----"

"You are getting restless already," she interrupted gravely, "and you have not been here two days!"

They were interrupted by Sidney's clear whistle, and a moment later Molly came tripping down the path.

"Come along in," she said; "the old gentleman is going. I was just stealing away to join you when Sidney whistled."

When Signor Bruno reached his home that evening, he threw his hat upon the table with some considerable force. His aged landlady, having left the lamp burning, had retired to bed. He sank into an armchair, and contemplated the square toes of his own boots for some moments. Then he scratched his head thoughtfully.

"Sacre nom d'un chien!" he muttered; "where have I seen that face before?"

Signor Bruno spoke French when soliloquising, which was perhaps somewhat peculiar for an Italian. However proficient a man may be in the mastery of foreign tongues, he usually dreams and talks to himself in the language he learnt at his mother's knee. He may count fluently in a strange tongue, but he invariably works out all mental arithmetic in his own. Likewise he prays--if he pray at all--in one tongue only. On the other hand, it appears very easy to swear in an acquired language.

Probably our forefathers borrowed each other's expletives when things went so lamentably wrong over the Tower of Babel. Still muttering to himself, Signor Bruno presently retired to rest with the remembrance of a young face, peculiarly and unpleasantly strong, haunting his dreams.

Shortly after Signor Bruno's departure, Christian happened to be left alone in the drawing room with Hilda. He promptly produced from his pocket the leaf he had cut from a book earlier in the evening. Unfolding the paper, he handed it to her, and said:--

"Do you recognise that?"

She looked at it, and answered without hesitation--

"Signor Bruno!"

The drawing was slight, but the likeness was perfect. The face was in profile, and the reproduction of the intelligent features could scarcely have been more lifelike in a careful portrait. Christian replaced the paper in his pocket.

"You remember Carl Trevetz, at Paris," continued he, "his father belonged to the Austrian Emba.s.sy!"

"Yes, I remember him!"

"To-morrow I will send this to him, simply asking who it is."

"Yes--and then?"

"When the answer comes, Hilda, I will write on the outside of the envelope the name that you will find inside--written by Trevetz."

For a moment she looked across the table at him with a vague expression of wonder upon her face.

"Even if you are right," she said, "will it affect us? Will it make us cease to look upon him as a friend?"

"I think so."

"Then," she said slowly, "it has come. You remember now?"

"Yes; I remember now--but it may be a mistake yet. I would rather have my memory confirmed by Trevetz before telling you what I know--or think I know--about Bruno!"

Hilda was about to question him further when Molly entered the room, and the subject was perforce dropped.

The next morning there came a letter for Christian from Mr. Bodery. It was short, and not very pleasant.

"DEAR VELLACOTT,--Sorry to trouble you with business so early in your holiday, but there has been another great row in Paris, as you will see from the papers I send you. It is hinted that the mob are mere tools in the hands of influential wire-pullers, and the worst of it is that they were armed with English rifles and bayonets of a pattern just superseded by the War Office. How these got into their hands is not yet explained, but you will readily see the gravity of the circ.u.mstance in the present somewhat strained state of affairs. Several of the 'dailies' refer to us, as you will see, and express a hope that our 'exceptional knowledge of French affairs' will enable us to throw some light upon the subject.

Trevetz is giving us all the information he can gather; but, of course, he is only able to devote a portion of his time to us. He hints that there is plenty of money in the background somewhere, and that a strong party has got up the whole affair--perhaps the Church. We must have something to say (something of importance) next week, and with this in view I must ask you to hold yourself in readiness to go to Paris on receipt of a telegram or letter from me.--Yours,

"C. C. BODERY."

Christian folded the letter, and replaced it in the envelope. Suddenly his attention was attracted to the latter. Upon the back there was a rim round the adhesive portion, and within this the glaze was gone from the paper. The envelope had been tampered with by a skilful manipulator. If Mr. Bodery had been in the habit of using inferior stationery, no trace would have been left upon the envelope.

Christian slipped the letter into his pocket, and, glancing round, saw that his movements had pa.s.sed un.o.bserved.

"Anything new?" asked Sidney, from the head of the table.

"Well, yes," was the reply. "There has been a disturbance in Paris. I may have to go over there on receipt of a telegram from the office;" he stopped, and looked slowly round the table. Hilda's attention was taken up by her plate, upon which, however, there was nothing. He leant forward, and handed her the toast-rack. She took a piece, but forgot to thank him. "I am sorry," he continued simply, "very sorry that the disturbances should have taken place just at this time."

His voice expressed natural and sincere regret, but no surprise. This seemed to arouse Molly's curiosity, for she looked up sharply.

"You do not seem to be at all surprised," she said.

"No," he replied; "I am accustomed to this sort of thing, you see. I knew all along that there was the chance of being summoned at any time.

This letter only adds to the chance--that is all!"

"It is a great shame," said Molly, with a pout. "I am sure there are plenty of people who could do it instead of you."

Christian laughed readily.

"I am sure there are," he replied, "and that is the very reason why I must take the opportunities that fortune offers."

Hilda looked across the table at him, and noted the smile upon his lips, the light of energy in his eyes. The love of action had driven all other thoughts from his mind.

"I suppose," she said conversationally, "that it will in reality be a good thing for you if the summons does come."

"Yes," he replied, without meeting her glance; "it will be a good thing for me."

"Is that consolatory view of the matter the outcome of philosophy, or of virtue?" inquired Molly mischievously.