nay, a dozen, such debacles
in our own time? And I contend that the degenerate scion of a great
house who goes to the wrong side of the footlights for his wife is a
criminal, and deserves all that may befall him. I bade my friend, John
Turner, farewell, he standing stoutly in his smoking-room after
luncheon, and prophesying a discouraging and darksome future for one
so headstrong.

"You're going to the devil," he said, "though you think you are
running after an angel."

"I am going to earn my own livelihood," answered I, with a laugh,
lighting the last excellent cigar I was to have from his box for some
time, "and make my idle ancestors turn in their graves. I am going to
draw emoluments of not less than one hundred and fifty pounds per
annum."

I drove across the river with my simple baggage, and was in due course
installed in my apartments. With these there was no fault to
find--indeed, they were worthy of a better inmate. A large and airy
bedroom looking out over the garden where the foliage, as I have said,
had none of the mournful sables worn by the trees in London. The room
was beautifully furnished. Even one who knew more of saddles than of
Buhl and Empire could see that at a glance. Moreover, I noted that
every ornament or handle of brass shone like gold.

"Madame's eyes have been here," thought I; "the clever eyes."

Adjacent to the bedroom was the study, which the Vicomte had pointed
out as being assigned to his secretary--adjoining as it did the room
whither he himself retired at times--not, as I suspected, to engage in
any great labours there.

While I was in my bedroom, the smart young Paris servant came in,
looked carelessly at my trunks, and was for withdrawing, when I
stopped him.

"Is it the buckles you are afraid of?" I said. "Beware rather of the
strap."

Therewith I threw my keys on the table before him and went into my
study. When I revisited my room later I found everything neatly placed
within the drawers and the empty trunks removed.

There were upon my study table a number of books and papers, placed
there with such evident intention that I took cognizance of them,
judging them to be the accounts rendered by the Vicomte's various
estates. So far as a cursory examination could prove it, I judged that
we had to deal with but clumsy scoundrels, and in France in those days
scoundrels were of fine fleur, I can tell you, while every sort of
villainy flourished there.

I was engaged with