ce is worth seven
hundred!"

No one replied. "Very well, my Israelites," added Shangois, bending over
the contract.

An hour later, Nicolas Lavilette was in the big storeroom of the
farmhouse, which was reached by a covered passage from the hall between
the kitchen and the dining-room. In his off-hand way he was getting out
some flour, dried fruit and preserves for the cook, who stood near as he
loaded up her arms. He laughingly thrust a string of green peppers under
her chin, and added a couple of sprigs of summer-savoury, then suddenly
turned round, with a start, for a peculiar low whistle came to him
through the half-open window. It was followed by heavy stertorous
breathing.

He turned back again to the cook, gaily took her by the shoulders, and
pushed her to the door. Closing it behind her, he shot the bolt and ran
back to the window. As he did so, a hand appeared on the windowsill, and
a face followed the hand.

"Ha! Nicolas Lavilette, is that you? So, you know my leetla whistle
again!"

Nicolas's brow darkened. In old days he and this same Vanne Castine had
been in many a scrape together, and Vanne, the elder, had always borne
the responsibility of their adventures. Nicolas had had enough of
those old days; other ambitions and habits governed him now. He was not
exactly the man to go back on a friend, but Castine no longer had any
particular claims to friendship. The last time he had heard Vanne's
whistle was a night five years before, when they both joined a gang of
river-drivers, and made a raid on some sham American speculators and
surveyors and labourers, who were exploiting an oil-well on the property
of the old seigneur. The two had come out of the melee with bruised
heads, and Vanne with a bullet in his calf. But soon afterwards came
Christine's elopement with Vanne, of which no one knew save her father,
Nicolas, Shangois and Vanne himself. That ended their compact, and,
after a bitter quarrel, they had parted and had never met nor seen each
other till this very afternoon.

"Yes, I know your whistle all right," answered Nicolas, with a twist of
the shoulder.

"Aren't you going to shake hands?" asked Castine, with a sort of sneer
on his face.

Nicolas thrust his hands down in his pockets. "I'm not so glad to see
you as all that," he answered, with a contemptuous laugh.

The black eyes of the bear-leader were alive with anger.

"You're a damn' fool, Nic Lavilette. You think because I lead a
be