he said.

James Turnbull made a little step backward, and for the first time in
his life there seemed to break out and blaze in his head thoughts that
were not his own.

"Why, how silly of them," cried out Madeleine, with quite a schoolgirl
gaiety, "why, how silly of them to call _you_ a blasphemer! Why,
you have wrecked your whole business because you would not commit
blasphemy."

The man stood, a somewhat comic figure in his tragic bewilderment,
with the honest red head of James Turnbull sticking out of the rich and
fictitious garments of Camille Bert. But the startled pain of his face
was strong enough to obliterate the oddity.

"You come down here," continued the lady, with that female emphasis
which is so pulverizing in conversation and so feeble at a public
meeting, "you and your MacIan come down here and put on false beards
or noses in order to fight. You pretend to be a Catholic commercial
traveller from France. Poor Mr. MacIan has to pretend to be a dissolute
nobleman from nowhere. Your scheme succeeds; you pick a quite convincing
quarrel; you arrange a quite respectable duel; the duel you have planned
so long will come off tomorrow with absolute certainty and safety. And
then you throw off your wig and throw up your scheme and throw over
your colleague, because I ask you to go into a building and eat a bit of
bread. And _then_ you dare to tell me that you are sure there is nothing
watching us. Then you say you know there is nothing on the very altar
you run away from. You know----"

"I only know," said Turnbull, "that I must run away from you. This has
got beyond any talking." And he plunged along into the village, leaving
his black wig and beard lying behind him on the road.

As the market-place opened before him he saw Count Gregory, that
distinguished foreigner, standing and smoking in elegant meditation
at the corner of the local cafe. He immediately made his way rapidly
towards him, considering that a consultation was urgent. But he had
hardly crossed half of that stony quadrangle when a window burst open
above him and a head was thrust out, shouting. The man was in his
woollen undershirt, but Turnbull knew the energetic, apologetic head of
the sergeant of police. He pointed furiously at Turnbull and shouted
his name. A policeman ran excitedly from under an archway and tried to
collar him. Two men selling vegetables dropped their baskets and joined
in the chase. Turnbull dodged the constable, upset