n him to such a lonely hermitage as La Poche? It
seemed incredible, and yet there was not the slightest doubt as to his
identity--I had seen him too often to be mistaken. His voice, too, now
came back to me.

He strode on, and for some minutes kept silent, then he stopped suddenly
and in a voice in which the old doubting tones were again audible said:

"You are English?"

Here he barred the path.

"No," I answered, a little ill at ease at his sudden change of manner.
"American, from New York."

"And yet, I think I have seen you in Paris," he replied, after a
moment's hesitation, his eyes boring into mine, which the light of the
moon now made clear to him.

"It is quite possible," I returned calmly; "I think I have seen you
also, monsieur; I am often in Paris."

Again he looked at me searchingly.

"Where?" he asked.

"At the Government's store, buying cigars." I did not intend to go any
further.

He smiled as if relieved. He had been either trying to place me, or his
suspicions had been again aroused, I could not tell which. One thing was
certain: he was convinced I had swallowed the name "de Brissac" easily.

All at once his genial manner returned. "This way, to the right," he
exclaimed. "Pardon me if I lead the way; the path is winding. My ruin,
as I sometimes call it, is only a little farther up, and you shall have
a long whiskey and siphon when you get there. You know Pont du Sable, of
course," he continued as I kept in his tracks; the talk having again
turned on his love of sport.

"Somewhat. I live there."

This time the surprise was his.

"Is it possible?" he cried, laying his hand on my shoulder, his face
alight.

"Yes, my house is the once-abandoned one with the wall down by the
marsh."

"Ah!" he burst out, "so you are _the_ American, the newcomer, the man I
have heard so much about, the man who is always shooting; and how the
devil, may I ask, did you come to settle in Pont du Sable?"

"Well, you see, every one said it was such a wretched hole that I felt
there must be some good in it. I have found it charming, and with the
shooting it has become an old friend. I am glad also to find that you
like it well enough to (it was I who hesitated now) to visit it."

"Yes, to shoot is always a relief," he answered evasively, and then in a
more determined voice added, "This way, to the right, over the rocks!
Come, give me your gun! The stones are slippery."

"No, I will carry it," I replied. "I