f importance" was rather long
of finding an expression, and he took the liberty of interrupting.

"Quite so, ma'am," said he, "but there was something in particular you
had to tell me. Mungo, as I mentioned, is waiting me at the quay, and
time presses, for we have much to do before we leave next week."

A look of relief came to Mrs. Petullo's face.

"Next week!" she cried. "Oh, then, that goes far to set my mind at
ease." Some colour came to her cheeks; she trifled with a handkerchief.
"What I wished to say, Baron, was that your daughter and--and--and the
French gentleman, with whom we are glad to hear she is like to make a
match of it, could not be away from this part of the country a day
too soon. I overheard a curious thing the other day, it is only fair I
should tell you, for it concerns your friend the French gentleman, and
it was that Simon MacTaggart knew the Frenchman was back in your house
and threatened trouble. There may be nothing in it, but I would not put
it past the same person, who is capable of any wickedness."

"It is not the general belief, ma'am," said the Baron, "but I'll take
your word for it, and, indeed, I have long had my own suspicions. Still,
I think the same gentleman has had his wings so recently clipped that we
need not be much put about at his threats."

"I have it on the best authority that he broods mischief," said she.

"The best authority," repeated Doom, with never a doubt as to what that
was. "Well, it may be, but I have no fear of him. Once, I'll confess, he
troubled me, but the man is now no more than a rotten kail-stock so far
as my household is concerned. I thank God Olivia is happy!"

"And so do I, I'm sure, with all my heart," chimed in the lady.
"And that is all the more reason why the Count--you see we know his
station--should be speedily out of the way of molestation, either from
the law or Simon MacTaggart."

Doom made to bring the interview to a conclusion. "As to the Count,"
said he, "you can take my word for it, he is very well able to look
after himself, as Drimdarroch, or MacTaggart, or whatever is the
Chamberlain's whim to call himself, knows very well by now. Drimdarroch,
indeed! I could be kicking him myself for his fouling of an honest old
name."

"Kicking!" said she; "I wonder at your leniency. I cannot but think you
are far from knowing the worst of Simon MacTaggart."

"The worst!" said Doom. "That's between himself and Hell, but I know as
much as most