zed my arms, the door was closed
with a crash, and we found ourselves staring blankly into the fire, all
feeling a bit shaken up.

It was Michael's turn to speak. "You may do what you please, but I stay
here for the night, no sleep for me," and he placed his pistols on his
knee.

I looked at the landlord and I thought I saw an expression of
disappointment on his face, but I was not sure. He made some excuse
about being tired and went out of the room. We spent the rest of the
night in gloomy silence. We did not speak five words, for I saw that
conversation only irritated my companion.

At dawn we walked into the sweet air and I called loudly for Arnold, who
looked sleepy and out of sorts when he appeared. The fat old man came to
see us off and smilingly accepted the silver I put into his hand for our
night's reckoning.

"Au revoir, my old friend," I said as I pressed the unnecessary spur
into my horse's flank. "Au revoir, and look out for the ghost of the
gallant Chevalier Gluck. Tell him, with my compliments, not to play
such latter-day tunes as the gavotte from Pagliacci."

"Oh, I'll tell him, you may be sure," said he, quite dryly.

We saluted and dashed down the road to Amboise, where we hoped to
capture our rare prize.

We had ridden about a mile when a dog attempted to cross our path. We
all but ran the poor brute down.

"Why, it's lame!" exclaimed Arnold.

"Oh, if it were but a lame man, instead of a dog!" fervently said the
groom, who was in the secret of our quest.

A horrid oath rang out on the smoky morning air. Michael, his wicked
eyes bulging fiercely, his thick neck swollen with rage, was cursing
like the army in Flanders, as related by dear old Uncle Toby.

"Lame man! why, oddsbodkins, that hostler was lame! Oh, fooled, by God!
cheated, fooled, swindled and tricked by that scamp and scullion of the
inn! Oh, we've been nicely swindled by an old wives' tale of a ghost!"

I stared in sheer amazement at Michael, wondering if the strangely spent
night had upset his reason. He could only splutter out between his awful
curses:--

"Gluck, the rascal, the ghost, the man we're after! That
harpsichord--the lying knave--that tune--I swear it wasn't Gluck--oh,
the rascal has escaped again! The ghost story--the villain was told to
scare us out of the house--to put us off the track. A thousand devils
chase the scamp!" And Michael let his head drop on the pommel of his
saddle as he fairly groaned in the b