stening posture. The sound of subdued
voices came from the archway below us, and one of these, from an
occasional excited and feminine note, I thought to be the gardienne's.
Monsieur de St. Gre thrust back his chair, and in three strides was at
the edge of the gallery.

"Auguste!" he cried.

Silence.

"Auguste, come up to me at once," he said in French.

Another silence, then something that sounded like "Sapristi!" a groan
from the gardienne, and a step was heard on the stairway. My own
discomfort increased, and I would have given much to be in any other
place in the world. Auguste had arrived at the head of the steps but was
apparently unable to get any farther.

"Bon soir, mon pere," he said.

"Like a dutiful son," said Monsieur de St. Gre, "you heard I was in
town, and called to pay your respects, I am sure. I am delighted to find
you. In fact, I came to town for that purpose."

"Lisette--" began Auguste.

"Thought that I did not wish to be disturbed, no doubt," said his
father. "Walk in, Auguste."

Monsieur Auguste's slim figure appeared in the doorway. He caught sight
of me, halted, backed, and stood staring with widened eyes. The candles
threw their light across his shoulder on the face of the elder Monsieur
de St. Gre. Auguste was a replica of his father, with the features
minimized to regularity and the brow narrowed. The complexion of the one
was a clear saffron, while the boy's skin was mottled, and he was not
twenty.

"What is the matter?" said Monsieur de St. Gre.

"You--you have a visitor!" stammered Auguste, with a tact that savored
of practice. Yet there was a sorry difference between this and the
haughty young patrician who had sold me the miniature.

"Who brings me good news," said Monsieur de St. Gre, in English. "Mr.
Ritchie, allow me to introduce my son, Auguste."

I felt Monsieur de St. Gre's eyes on me as I bowed, and I began to think
I was in near as great a predicament as Auguste. Monsieur de St. Gre was
managing the matter with infinite wisdom.

"Sit down, my son," he said; "you have no doubt been staying with your
uncle." Auguste sat down, still staring.

"Does your aunt's health mend?"

"She is better to-night, father," said the son, in English which might
have been improved.

"I am glad of it," said Monsieur de St. Gre, taking a chair. "Andre,
fill the glasses."

The silent, linen-clad mulatto poured out the Madeira, shot a look at
Auguste, and retired softly.

"The