to complete
her toilet in the kitchen.

"Fortunately," M. Brisson muttered to himself, "the fire is laid!"

Then, having held his collar to the light and decided that it was clean
enough, he buttoned it about his neck, attached his shiny ready-made
tie, donned his little white coat, picked up the candle and left the
room. Passing along the corridor to the front of the house, he tapped at
a door.

"Who is there?" called a rough voice.

"Your coffee will be ready in twenty minutes, sir," said Brisson.

"Very well; and thank you," answered the voice, and Brisson descended to
the dining-room, opened the shutters, lighted the lamp, and spread the
cloth.

He was contemplating his handiwork, his head to one side, when heavy
steps sounded on the stair, and a moment later two men entered. They
were both of middle-age, somewhat stocky and heavily-built, their hair
close-cropped, their faces smooth-shaven and deeply tanned. They had,
indeed, that indurated look which only years of exposure to wind and
rain can give, except that their upper lips were some shades lighter
than the remainder of the face, betraying the fact that they had, until
recently, been protected by a moustache. They were dressed in somewhat
shabby tweed walking-suits, and wore heavy well-worn shoes. At this
moment, each carried in his hand a little knapsack.

M. Brisson greeted them bent double, hoped that they had slept well,
foretold a fine day, and assured them that coffee would be ready in a
moment.

"Our bags are in our room, properly labelled," said one of them, finding
his words with apparent difficulty and accenting them most queerly.
"They are to go to Nice, where we will claim them."

"I will attend to it. And you, sirs?" asked Brisson.

"It is our intention to walk."

"By way of the Cornice?"

"Yes."

"You will find it a most beautiful road; even in your own America you
will find nothing more beautiful. And how fortunate that you will have
so fine a day! Where will you rest to-night?"

"At Frejus, probably."

"A beautiful town, well worth a visit. Permit me to recommend you, sirs,
that you stop at the Hotel du Midi. The proprietor is a relative of
mine--a nephew, in fact; he will treat you well."

"Thank you," responded the stranger, and at that moment Madame Brisson
entered, flushed but triumphant, bearing a tray on which was a small
pitcher of very black coffee, a large pitcher of very hot milk, a plate
of rolls and "crescents