ittle grey figure that carried
a gold-headed cane. At the shore this same little grey figure bade
Mattingley good-bye with a quavering voice. Whereupon Carterette, her
face all wet with tears, kissed him upon both cheeks, and sobbed so that
she could scarcely speak. For now when it was all done--all the
horrible ordeal over--the woman in her broke down before the little old
gentleman, who had been like a benediction in the house where the ten
commandments were imperfectly upheld. But she choked down her sobs, and
thinking of another more than of herself, she said:

"Dear Chevalier, do not forget the book--that register--I gave you
to-night. Read it--read the last writing in it, and then you will
know--ah, bidemme--but you will know that her we love--ah, but you must
read it and tell nobody till--till the right time comes! She hasn't held
her tongue for naught, and it's only fair to do as she's done all along,
and hold ours. Pardingue, but my heart hurts me!" she added suddenly,
and catching the hand that held the little gold cane she kissed it with
impulsive ardour. "You have been so good to me--oui-gia!" she said with
a gulp, and then she dropped the hand and turned and fled to the boat
rocking in the surf.

The little Chevalier watched the boat glide out into the gloom of night,
and waited till he knew that they must all be aboard Ranulph's schooner
and making for the sea. Then he turned and went back to the empty house
in the Rue d'Egypte.

Opening the book Carterette had placed in his hands before they left the
house, he turned up and scanned closely the last written page. A moment
after, he started violently, his eyes dilating, first with wonder, then
with a bewildered joy; and then, Protestant though he was, with the
instinct of long-gone forefathers, he made the sacred gesture, and said:

"Now I have not lived and loved in vain, thanks be to God!"

Even as joy opened wide the eyes of the Chevalier, who had been sorely
smitten through the friends of his heart, out at sea Night and Death
were closing the eyes of another wan old man who had been a traitor to
his country.

For the boat of the fugitives had scarcely cleared reefs and rocks, and
reached the open Channel, when Olivier Delagarde, uttering the same cry
as when Ranulph and the soldiers had found him wounded in the Grouville
road sixteen years before, suddenly started up from where he had lain
mumbling, and whispering incoherently, "Ranulph--they've k