nking ye forget
a small case we had no further gone than yesterday, when a man with
the unlucky name of Stewart--" He stopped, meaningly smiled, and made a
gesture with his fingers across his neck, at the same time giving an odd
sound with his throat.

"Oh! You're an awfu' man," cried Petullo, with the accent of a lout. "I
wonder if you're on the same track as myself, for I'm like the Hielan'
soldier--I have a Frenchman of my own. There's one, I mean, up by there
in Doom, and coming down here to-morrow or the day after, or as soon as
I can order a lodging for him in the town."

"Oh, hell!" cried the secretary, amazingly dumfoundered.

"There's nothing underhand about him, so far as I know, to give even his
Grace an excuse for confining him, for it seems he's a wine merchant out
of Bordeaux, one Montaiglon, come here on business, and stopped at
Doom through an attack on his horse by the same Macfarlanes who are of
interest to us for another reason, as was spoken of at his Grace's table
last night."

"And he's coming here?" asked MacTaggart, incredulous.

"I had a call from the Baron himself to-day to tell me that."

"Ah, well, there's no more to be said of our suspicions," said
MacTaggart. "Not in this form, at least." And he was preparing to go.

A skirt rustled within the inner door, and Mrs. Petullo, flushed a
little to her great becoming in spite of a curl-paper or two, and clad
in a lilac-coloured negligee of the charmingest, came into the office
with a well-acted start of surprise to find a client there.

"Oh, good morning! Mr. MacTaggart," she exclaimed, radiantly, while her
husband scowled to himself, as he relapsed into the chair at his
desk and fumbled with his papers. "Good morning; I hope I have not
interrupted business?"

"Mr. MacTaggart was just going, my dear," said Mr. Petullo.

A cracked bell rang within, and the Chamberlain perceived an odour of
cooking celery. Inwardly he cursed his forgetfulness, because it was
plain that the hour for his call upon the writer was ill-chosen.

"My twelve-hours is unusual sharp to-day," said Petullo, consulting a
dumpy horologe out of his fob. "Would ye--would ye do me the honour
of joining me?" with a tone that left, but not too rudely, immediate
departure as the Chamberlain's only alternative.

"Thank you, thank you," said MacTaggart. "I rose late to-day, and my
breakfast's little more than done with." He made for the door, Mrs.
Petullo close in his cry