tching his cane impatiently. He had not seen her yet, and she stood
still, looking at him fondly, dreading what was to come, yet longing to
hear the sound of his voice. How handsome he was! What a nice gray suit,
and--then Kittredge turned.

"Ah, at last!" he exclaimed, springing toward her with a mirthful, boyish
smile. His face was ruddy and clean shaven, the twinkling eyes and humorous
lines about the mouth suggesting some joke or drollery always ready on his
lips. Yet his was a frank, manly face, easily likable. He was a man of
twenty-seven, slender of build, but carrying himself well. In dress he had
the quiet good taste that some men are born with, besides a willingness to
take pains about shirts, boots, and cravats--in short, he looked like a
well-groomed Englishman. Unlike the average Englishman, however, he spoke
almost perfect French, owing to the fact that his American father had
married into one of the old Creole families of New Orleans.

"How is your royal American constitution?" She smiled, repeating in
excellent English one of the nonsensical phrases he was fond of using. She
tried to say it gayly, but he was not deceived, and answered seriously in
French:

"Hold on. There's something wrong. We've been sad, eh?"

"Why--er--" she began, "I--er----"

"Been worrying, I know. Too much church. Too much of that old she dragon.
Come over here and tell me about it." He led her to a bench shaded by a
friendly sycamore tree. "Now, then."

She faced him with troubled eyes, searching vainly for words and finding
nothing. The crisis had come, and she did not know how to meet it. Her red
lips trembled, her eyes grew melting, and she sat there silent and
delicious in her perplexity. Kittredge thrilled under the spell of her
beauty; he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her.

"Suppose we go back a little," he said reassuringly. "About six months ago,
I think it was in January, a young chap in a fur overcoat drifted into this
old stone barn and took a turn around it. He saw the treasure and the fake
relics and the white marble French gentleman trying to get out of his
coffin. And he didn't care a hang about any of 'em until he saw you. Then
he began to take notice. The next day he came back and you sold him a
little red guidebook that told all about the twenty-five chapels and the
seven hundred and ninety-two saints. No, seven hundred and ninety-three,
for there was one saint with wonderful eyes and glorious