shed room which, even in this poor and
wavering light, had so cheerful and commonplace an appearance.

Owing no doubt to his excellent physical condition, as well as to his
good conscience, Chester was a fearless man. A week ago he would have
laughed to scorn the notion that the dead ever revisit the earth, as so
many of us believe they do, but the four nights he had spent at the
Pension Malfait, had shaken his conviction that "dead men rise up never."

Most reluctantly he had come to the conclusion that the Pension Malfait
was haunted.

And the feeling of unease did not vanish even after he had taken his bath
in the queer bath-room, of which the Malfaits were so proud, or later,
when he had eaten the excellent breakfast provided for him. On the
contrary, the thought of going up to his bed-room, even in broad
daylight, filled him with a kind of shrinking fear.

He told himself angrily that this kind of thing could not go on. The
sleepless nights made him ill--he who never was ill; also he was losing
precious days of his short holiday, while doing no good to himself and no
good to Sylvia.

Sending for the hotel-keeper, he curtly told him that he meant to leave
Lacville that evening.

M. Malfait expressed much sorrow and regret. Was M'sieur not comfortable?
Was there anything he could do to prolong his English guest's stay?

No, M'sieur had every reason to be satisfied, but--but had M. Malfait
ever had any complaints of noises in the bed-room occupied by his English
guest?

The Frenchman's surprise and discomfiture seemed quite sincere; but
Chester, looking into his face, suspected that the wondering protests,
the assertion that this particular bed-room was the quietest in the
house, were not sincere. In this, however he wronged poor M. Malfait.

Chester went upstairs and packed. There seemed to be a kind of finality
in the act. If she knew he was ready to start that night, Sylvia would
not be able to persuade him to stay on, as she probably would try to do.

At the Villa du Lac he was greeted with, "Madame Bailey is in the garden
with the Comte de Virieu"--and he thought he saw a twinkle in merry
little M. Polperro's eyes.

Poor Sylvia! Poor, foolish, wilful Sylvia! Was it conceivable that after
what she had seen the night before she still liked, she still respected,
that mad French gambler?

He looked over the wide lawn; no, there was no sign of Sylvia and the
Count. Then, all at once, coming through a doo