a leather jerkin
hid much of his finery, and his great boots encased his legs. He wore a
brown hat, with a tallish crown and a red feather, and Rabecque carried
his cloak for him, for the persistent Saint Martin's summer rendered
that day of November rather as one of early autumn.

A flood of sunshine descended from a cloudless sky to drench the country
at their feet, and all about them the trees preserved a green that was
but little touched by autumnal browning.

Awhile he paused there on the heights; then he gave his horse a touch
of the spur, and they started down the winding road that led into La
Rochette. A half-hour later they were riding under the porte cochere of
the inn of the Black Boar. Of the ostler who hastened forward to take
their reins Monsieur de Garnache inquired if the Marquis de Condillac
were lodged there. He was answered in the affirmative, and he got down
at once from his horse. Indeed, but for the formality of the thing, he
might have spared himself the question, for lounging about the
courtyard were a score of stalwart weather-tanned fellows, whose air and
accoutrements proclaimed them soldiers. It required little shrewdness
to guess in them the personal followers of the Marquis, the remainder of
the little troop that had followed the young seigneur to the wars when,
some three years ago, he had set out from Condillac.

Garnache gave orders for the horses to be cared for, and bade Rabecque
get himself fed in the common room. Heralded by the host, the Parisian
then mounted the stairs to Monsieur de Condillac's apartments.

The landlord led the way to the inn's best room, turned the handle, and,
throwing wide the door, stood aside for Monsieur de Garnache to enter.

From within the chamber came the sounds of a scuffle, a man's soft
laugh, and a girl's softer intercession.

"Let me go, monsieur. Of your pity, let me go. Some one is coming."

"And what care I who comes?" answered a voice that seemed oppressed by
laughter.

Garnache strode into the chamber--spacious and handsomely furnished as
became the best room of the Auberge du Sanglier Noir--to find a meal
spread on the table, steaming with an odour promising of good things,
but neglected by the guest for the charms of the serving-wench, whose
waist he had imprisoned. As Garnache's tall figure loomed before him he
let the girl go and turned a half-laughing, half-startled face upon the
intruder.

"Who the devil may you be?" he inquired,