t_ have deceived me when they caught the sound of a girl's
merry laugh mingling with the more ribald one of the man.

4.

I have paused purposely, Sir, ere I embark upon the narration of the
final stage of this, my life's adventure.

The chaise was bowling along the banks of the river toward Suresnes.
Presently the driver struck to his right and plunged into the
fastnesses of the Bois de Boulogne. For a while, therefore, we were in
utter darkness. My lovely companion neither moved nor spoke. Somewhere
in the far distance a church clock struck eleven. One whole hour had
gone by since first I had embarked on this great undertaking.

I was excited, feverish. The beautiful Leah's silence and tranquillity
grated upon my nerves. I could not understand how she could remain
there so placid when her whole life's happiness had so suddenly, so
unexpectedly, been assured. I became more and more fidgety as time
went on. Soon I felt that I could no longer hold myself in proper
control. Being of an impulsive disposition, this tranquil acceptance
of so great a joy became presently intolerable, and, unable to
restrain my ardour any longer, I seized that passive bundle of
loveliness in my arms.

"Have no fear," I murmured once again, as I pressed her to my heart.

But my admonition was obviously unnecessary. The beautiful Leah showed
not the slightest sign of fear. She rested her head against my
shoulder and put one arm around my neck. I was in raptures.

Just then the vehicle swung out of the Bois and once more rattled upon
the cobblestones. This time we were nearing Suresnes. A vague light,
emanating from the lanthorns at the bridge-head, was already faintly
visible ahead of us. Soon it grew brighter. The next moment we passed
immediately beneath the lanthorns. The interior of the carriage was
flooded with light . . . and, Sir, I gave a gasp of unadulterated
dismay! The being whom I held in my arms, whose face was even at that
moment raised up to my own, was not the lovely Leah! It was Sarah,
Sir! Sarah Goldberg, the dour, angular aunt, whose yellow teeth
gleamed for one brief moment through her thin lips as she threw me one
of those glances of amorous welcome which invariably sent a cold
shiver down my spine. Sarah Goldberg! I scarce could believe my eyes,
and for a moment did indeed think that the elusive, swiftly-vanished
light of the bridge-head lanthorns had played my excited senses a
weird and cruel trick. But no! The