s conjectures.

"Coming, my lord!" And the valet slowly mounted the broad stairway
amid a fusillade of epithets from the sick chamber. An hour before the
marquis had ordered him out of his sight as vehemently as now he
summoned him, all of which Francois endured with infinite patience and
becoming humility.

Passing into the Rue Royale, the favorite promenade of the
Creole-French, the land baron went on through various thoroughfares
with French-English nomenclature into St. Charles Street, reaching his
apartments, which adjoined a well-known club. He was glad to stretch
himself once more on his couch, feeling fatigued from his efforts, and
having rather overtaxed his strength.

But if his body was now inert, his mind was active. His thoughts
dwelt upon the soldier's reticence, his disinclination to make
acquaintances, and the coldness with which he had received his,
Mauville's, advances in the Shadengo Valley. Why, asked Mauville,
lying there and putting the pieces of the tale together, did not
Saint-Prosper remain with his new-found friends, the enemies of his
country? Because, came the answer, Abd-el-Kader, the patriot of
Algerian independence, had been captured and the subjection of the
country had followed. Since Algeria had become a French colony,
where could Saint-Prosper have found a safer asylum than in
America? Where more secure from "that chosen curse" for the man who
owes his weal to his country's woe?

In his impatience to possess the promised proof, the day passed all
too slowly. He even hoped the count would call, although that worthy
brought with him all the "flattering devils, sweet poison and deadly
sins" of inebriation. But the count, like a poor friend, was absent
when wanted, and it was a distinct relief to the land baron when
Francois appeared at his apartments in the evening with a buff-colored
envelope, which he handed to him.

"The suppressed report?" asked the latter, weighing it in his hand.

"No, Monsieur; I could not find that. My master must have destroyed
it."

The land baron made a gesture of disappointment and irritation.

"But this," Francois hastened to add, "is a letter from the Duc
d'Aumale, governor of Algeria, to the Marquis de Ligne, describing the
affair. Monsieur will find it equally as satisfactory, I am sure."

"How did you get it?" said the patroon, thoughtfully.

"My master left the keys on the dresser."

"And if he misses this letter--"

"Oh, Monsieur, I grie