die,
whose tales, as you may remember--the old rogue!--would fill many
pages."

"Many leaves, indeed," said Count Victor--"preferably fig-leaves."

"The bagpipe moves me like a weeping woman, and here, for all that, is
the most indifferent of musicians."

"_Tenez!_ monsieur; I present my homages to the best of
flageolet-players," said Count Victor, smiling.

"The flageolet! a poor instrument, and still--and still not without
its qualities. Here's one at least who finds it the very salve for
weariness. Playing it, I often feel in the trance of rapture. I wish to
God I could live my life upon the flute, for there I'm on the best and
cleanest terms with myself, and no backwash of penitence. Eh! listen to
me preaching!"

"There is one air I have heard of yours--so!--that somehow haunts me,"
said Count Victor; "its conclusion seemed to baffle you."

"So it does, man, so it does! If I found the end of that, I fancy I
would find a new MacTaggart. It's--it's--it's not a run of notes I
want--indeed the air's my own, and I might make it what I chose--but
an experience or something of that sort outside my opportunities, or my
recollection."

Count Victor's glance fell on Mrs. Petullo, but hers was not on him; she
sought the eyes of the Chamberlain.

"Madame looks your way," he indicated, and at once the Chamberlain's
visage changed.

"She'd be better to look to her man," he said, so roughly that the Count
once more had all his misgivings revived.

"We may not guess how bitter a prospect that may be," said he with pity
for the creature, and he moved towards her, with the Chamberlain, of
necessity, but with some reluctance, at his heel.

Mrs. Petullo saw the lagging nature of her old love's advance; it was
all that was needed now to make her evening horrible.

"Oh!" said she, smiling, but still with other emotions than amusement or
goodwill struggling in her countenance, "I was just fancying you would
be none the waur o' a wife to look to your buttons."

"Buttons!" repeated the Chamberlain.

"See," she said, and lightly turned him round so that his back was
shown, with his plaid no longer concealing the absence of a button from
a skirt of his Highland jacket.

Count Victor looked, and a rush of emotions fairly overwhelmed him, for
he knew he had the missing button in his pocket.

Here was the nocturnal marauder of Doom, or the very devil was in it!

The Chamberlain laughed, but still betrayed a little confusion