"That is well. And the others?"

"The others left yesterday afternoon. They cross by this morning's boat from Southampton to Cherbourg. You see how much I have had to do."

"I see also, my friend, how well you have done it."

"And now," said Signor Bruno, ignoring the compliment, "I must go. We will walk away by the back garden across the fields. You must remember that you may have been seen coming here."

"I have thought of that. One old man saw me, but he did not look at me twice. He will not know me again. And your landlady--where is she?"

"I have sent her out on a fool's errand."

As they spoke they left the little cottage by the back door, as Signor Bruno had proposed, through the little garden, and across some low-lying fields. Presently they parted, Signor Bruno turning to the left, while the Vicomte d'Audierne kept to the right.

"We shall meet, I suppose," were the last words of the younger man, "in the Rue St. Gingolphe?"

"Yes--in the Rue St. Gingolphe."

For so old a man the pace at which Signor Bruno breasted the hill that lay before him was somewhat remarkable. The Vicomte d'Audierne, on the other hand, was evidently blessed with a greater leisure. He looked at his watch and strolled on through the dew-laden meadows, wrapt in thought as in a cloak that hid the sweet freshness of the flowery hedgerows, that m.u.f.fled the broken song of the busy birds, that killed the scent of ripening hay. Thus these two singular men parted--and it happened that they were never to meet again. These little things _do_ happen. We meet with gravity; we part with a smile; perhaps we make an appointment; possibly we speak of the pleasure that the meeting seems to promise: and the next meeting is put off; it belongs to the great postponement.

Often we part with an indifferent nod, as these two men parted amidst the sylvan peace of English meadow on that summer morning. They belonged to two different stations in life almost as far apart as two social stations could be, even in a republic. They were not, in any sense of the word, friends; they were merely partners, intensely awake, as partners usually are, to each other's shortcomings.

The Vicomte d'Audierne probably thought no more of Signor Bruno from the moment that he raised his hat and turned. A few moments later his thoughts were evidently far away.

"The son of Vellacott," he muttered, as he took a cigarette from a neat silver case. "How strange! And yet I am sorry. He might have done something in the world. That article was clever--very clever--curse it!

He cannot yet be thirty. But one would expect something from the son of a man like Vellacott."

It was not yet nine o'clock when the Vicomte entered the dining-room by the open window. Only Hilda was there, and she was busy with the old leather post-bag. Among the letters there were several newspapers, and the Vicomte d'Audierne's expression underwent a slight change on perceiving them. His thin, mobile lips were closely pressed, and his chin--a very short one--was thrust forward. Behind the gentle spectacles his eyes a.s.sumed for a moment that singular blinking look which cannot be described in English, for it seemed to change their colour. In his country it would have been called _glauque_.

"Ah, Hilda!" he said, approaching slowly, "do I see newspapers? I love a newspaper!"

She handed him the _Times_ enveloped in a yellow wrapper, upon which was printed her brother's name and address.

"Ah," he said lightly, "the _Times_--estimable, but just a trifle opaque. Is that all?"

His eyes were fixed upon two packets she held in her hand.

"These are Mr. Bodery's," she replied, looking at him with some concentration.

"And what newspaper does Mr. Bodery read?" asked the Frenchman, holding out his hand.

She hesitated for a moment. His position with regard to her was singular, his ascendency over her had never been tried. It was an unknown quant.i.ty; but the Vicomte d'Audierne knew his own power.

"Let me look, little girl," he said quietly in French.

She handed him the newspapers, still watching his face.

"The _Beacon_," he muttered, reading aloud from the ornamented wrapper, "a weekly journal."

He threw the papers down and returned to the _Times_, which he unfolded.

"Tell me, Hilda," he said, "is Mr. Bodery connected with this weekly journal, the _Beacon?_"

Her back was turned towards him. She was hanging up the key of the post-bag on a nail beside the fireplace.

"Yes," she replied, without looking round.

"Is he the editor?"

"Yes."

The Vicomte d'Audierne turned the _Times_ carelessly.

"Ah!" he muttered, "the phylloxera has appeared again."

For some time he appeared to be absorbed in this piece of news, then he spoke again.

"I knew something of a man who writes for that newspaper--the _Beacon_.

I knew his father very well."

"Yes."

The Vicomte glanced at her.

"Christian Vellacott," he said.

"We know him also," she answered, moving towards the bell. He made a step forward as if about to offer to ring the bell for her, but she was too quick.

When the butler entered the room, Hilda reminded him of some small omission in setting out the breakfast-table. The item required was in the room, and the man set it upon the table with some decision and a slightly aggrieved cast of countenance.

The Vicomte d'Audierne raised his eyes, and then he looked very grave.

He was a singular man in many ways, but those who worked with him were aware of one peculiarity which by its prominence cast others into the shade. He possessed a very useful gift rarely given to men--the gift of intuition. It was dangerous to _think_ when the eyes of the Vicomte d'Audierne were upon one's face. He had a knack of knowing one's thoughts before they were even formulated. He looked grave--almost distressed--on this occasion, because he knew something of which Hilda herself was ignorant. He knew that she was engaged to be married to one man while she loved another.

CHAPTER XVIII

AN EMPTY NEST

In the middle of breakfast a card was handed to Sidney Carew. He glanced at it, nodded his head as a signal to the servant that he need not wait, and slipped the card into his pocket. Mr. Bodery and the Vicomte d'Audierne were watching him.

Presently he rose from the table and left the room. Mrs. Carew became suddenly lively, and the meal went on unconcernedly. It was not long before Sidney came back.

"Do you want," he said to his mother, "some tickets for a concert at Brayport on the 4th of next month?"

"What sort of a concert?"