sky of cloudless blue, white towards the
horizon where it could catch the lustre of the up-beating brightness
of the snow. In the dark cold mornings of the year the hotel people
had fallen into a habit of bringing up his coffee and pistolet to his
bedroom. He had been willing enough to acquiesce in the custom; but
as he sat sipping and munching in dressing-gown and slippers, with a
travelling-rug about his knees, and revolving the events of last night
in his mind, he heard a noise in the stables, and, thrusting the
window open, looked out into the cold, still, clear air. Victor, the
shock-headed driver, was leading out a pair of flea-bitten grays already
accoutred for a journey, part of their harness dragging through the as
yet untrodden snow.

'Holla!' he called--'Victor!' The man looked up, knuckling at his
forehead. 'Are they shooting to-day?' Paul asked. 'It ought to be a good
day for the trackers.'

'No, monsieur,' Victor answered; 'it is Madame la Baronne who departs.
She takes the express to Verviers at half-past nine. Monsieur will
excuse; I am afraid of being late already.'

From the moment at which he had heard the horses moving down below,
he had anticipated this without wholly knowing to what he had looked
forward. He thrust aside with his foot the ice-cold tub in which it
was his custom to rejoice--as befitted an Englishman of his years--and,
hastily sponging his face and hands, made a hurried toilet, listening
meanwhile for any sound which might bring definite tidings to his mind.
When he descended the carriage was still at the main entrance to the
hotel, and Victor was pulling on to his chapped hands a huge pair of
sheepskin gloves, the wool worn inside.

'We have but thirty-five minutes,' the driver grumbled, 'and two miles
to go, and all uphill.'

'Is that a very awful task?' Paul asked, for the mere sake of saying
something.

He was intent on retaining his name, and on saying farewell in such a
fashion that his manner should cast no reflection on the dear departing
divinity. Mademoiselle Adele was already at the door, wiping her hands
upon her apron. Madame Alexis, the cook, was ranged up alongside,
and beyond her was the apple-cheeked Flamande maid One of the male
hangers-on of the establishment came stumbling down the staircase with
a great travelling-trunk upon his shoulders, and arranged his burden
alongside the driver's seat. Then down tripped the Baroness's maid,
carrying a dressing-bag i