way."

"It seems very flighty in me to be taking a new place at this time of
life," observed Mrs. Bread, lugubriously. "But if you are going to turn
the house upside down, I would rather be out of it."

"Oh," said Newman, in the cheerful tone of a man who feels rich in
alternatives. "I don't think I shall bring in the constables, if that's
what you mean. Whatever Madame de Bellegarde did, I am afraid the law
can't take hold of it. But I am glad of that; it leaves it altogether to
me!"

"You are a mighty bold gentleman, sir," murmured Mrs. Bread, looking at
him round the edge of her great bonnet.

He walked with her back to the chateau; the curfew had tolled for the
laborious villagers of Fleurieres, and the street was unlighted and
empty. She promised him that he should have the marquis's manuscript in
half an hour. Mrs. Bread choosing not to go in by the great gate, they
passed round by a winding lane to a door in the wall of the park, of
which she had the key, and which would enable her to enter the chateau
from behind. Newman arranged with her that he should await outside the
wall her return with the coveted document.

She went in, and his half hour in the dusky lane seemed very long. But
he had plenty to think about. At last the door in the wall opened and
Mrs. Bread stood there, with one hand on the latch and the other holding
out a scrap of white paper, folded small. In a moment he was master of
it, and it had passed into his waistcoat pocket. "Come and see me in
Paris," he said; "we are to settle your future, you know; and I will
translate poor M. de Bellegarde's French to you." Never had he felt so
grateful as at this moment for M. Nioche's instructions.

Mrs. Bread's dull eyes had followed the disappearance of the paper, and
she gave a heavy sigh. "Well, you have done what you would with me, sir,
and I suppose you will do it again. You MUST take care of me now. You
are a terribly positive gentleman."

"Just now," said Newman, "I'm a terribly impatient gentleman!" And he
bade her good-night and walked rapidly back to the inn. He ordered his
vehicle to be prepared for his return to Poitiers, and then he shut
the door of the common salle and strode toward the solitary lamp on the
chimney-piece. He pulled out the paper and quickly unfolded it. It was
covered with pencil-marks, which at first, in the feeble light, seemed
indistinct. But Newman's fierce curiosity forced a meaning from the
tremulous signs. The