ht, and that
makes you a public nuisance. If you linger here much longer the verdict
will undoubtedly be: Violent death at the hands of some person or
persons unknown. So here are passports and a goodish bit of money. If
you run through all of it before this blows over, we'll find a way, of
course, to get more to you. You understand: No price too high that buys
good riddance of you. And there will be a destroyer waiting at
Portsmouth to-night with instructions to put ashore secretly anywhere
you like across the Channel. After that--as far as the British Empire
is concerned--your blood be on your own head."

The other nodded, investigating the envelope which his late chief had
handed him, then from his letter of credit and passports looked up with
a reminiscent smile.

"It isn't the first time you've vouched for me by this style.
Remember?"

"Well, you've earned as fair title to the name of Duchemin as I ever
did to that of Wertheimer."

But the smile was fading from the eyes of the man whom England
preferred to recognize as Andre Duchemin.

"But where on earth is one to go?" "Don't ask me," the Englishman
protested. "And above all, don't tell me. I don't want to know. Since
I've been on this job, I've learned to believe in telepathy and mind
reading and witchcraft and all manner of unholy rot. And I don't want
you to come to a sudden end through somebody's establishing illicit
intercourse with my subconscious mind."

He took his leave shortly after that; and Monsieur Duchemin settled
down in the chair which his guest had quitted to grapple with his
problem: where under Heaven to go?

After a wasted while, he picked up in abstraction the book which
Wertheimer had been reading--and wondered if, by any chance, he had
left it there on purpose, so strong seemed the hint. It was Stevenson's
'Travels with a Donkey.' Duchemin was familiar enough with the work,
and had no need to dip anew into its pages to know it offered one fair
solution to his quandary.

If--he assured himself--there were any place in Europe where one might
count on being reasonably secure from the solicitous attentions of the
grudge-bearing Bolsheviki, it was the Cevennes, those little-known
hills in the south of France, well inland from the sea.

II

ONE WALKS

A little place called Le Monastier, in a pleasant highland valley
fifteen miles from Le Puy ... notable for the making of lace, for
drunkenness, for freedom of language, and f