ith the strangers, and by his manner seemed to
indicate his comprehension of Monsieur de Gemosac's well-turned phrases
of welcome. Dormer Colville appeared to be in a silent humour, unless
perchance he happened to be one of those rare beings who can either talk
or hold their tongues as occasion may demand.

"You won't want me to put my oar in, I see," observed he, tentatively,
as he drew forward a small table whereon were set three glasses and a
bottle of the celebrated claret.

"I can understand French, but I don't talk it," replied the Captain,
stolidly.

"And if I interpret as we go along, we shall sit here all night, and get
very little said."

Colville explained the difficulty to the Marquis de Gemosac, and agreed
with him that much time would be saved if Captain Clubbe would be kind
enough to tell in English all that he knew of the nameless Frenchman
buried in Farlingford churchyard, to be translated by Colville to
Monsieur de Gemosac at another time. As Clubbe understood this, and
nodded in acquiescence, there only remained to them to draw the cork and
light their cigars.

"Not much to tell," said Clubbe, guardedly. "But what there is, is no
secret, so far as I know. It has not been told because it was known
long ago, and has been forgotten since. The man's dead and buried, and
there's an end of him."

"Of him, yes, but not of his race," answered Colville.

"You mean the lad?" inquired the Captain, turning his calm and steady
gaze to Colville's face. The whole man seemed to turn, ponderously and
steadily, like a siege-gun.

"That is what I meant," answered Colville. "You understand," he went on
to explain, as if urged thereto by the fixed glance of the clear blue
eye--"you understand, it is none of my business. I am only here as the
Marquis de Gemosac's friend. Know him in his own country, where I live
most of the time."

Clubbe nodded.

"Frenchman was picked up at sea fifty-five years ago this July," he
narrated, bluntly, "by the 'Martha and Mary' brig of this port. I
was apprentice at the time. Frenchman was a boy with fair hair and a
womanish face. Bit of a cry-baby I used to think him, but being a boy
myself I was perhaps hard on him. He was with his--well, his mother."

Captain Clubbe paused. He took the cigar from his lips and carefully
replaced the outer leaf, which had wrinkled. Perhaps he waited to be
asked a question. Colville glanced at him sideways and did not ask it.

"Dark night," th