s hardly a minute before Aurora was ready to start. A kiss, a
sorrowful look of love exchanged, the veil dropped over the swollen
eyes, and Aurora was gone.

A minute passed, hardly more, and--what was this?--the soft patter of
Aurora's knuckles on the door.

"Just here at the corner I saw Palmyre leaving her house and walking
down the rue Royale. We must wait until morn--"

Again a footfall on the doorstep, and the door, which was standing ajar,
was pushed slightly by the force of the masculine knock which followed.

"Allow me," said the voice of Honore Grandissime, as Aurora bowed at the
door. "I should have handed you this; good-day."

She received a missive. It was long, like an official document; it bore
evidence of having been carried for some hours in a coat-pocket, and was
folded in one of those old, troublesome ways in use before the days of
envelopes. Aurora pulled it open.

"It is all figures; light a candle."

The candle was lighted by Clotilde and held over Aurora's shoulder; they
saw a heading and footing more conspicuous than the rest of the writing.

The heading read:

"_Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou, owners of Fausse Riviere
Plantation, in account with Honore Grandissime_."

The footing read:

_ "Balance at credit, subject to order of Aurora and Clotilde
Nancanou, $105,000.00_."

The date followed:

"_March_ 9, 1804."

and the signature:

"_H. Grandissime_."

A small piece of torn white paper slipped from the account to the floor.
Clotilde's eye followed it, but Aurora, without acknowledgement of
having seen it, covered it with her foot.

In the morning Aurora awoke first. She drew from under her pillow this
slip of paper. She had not dared look at it until now. The writing on
it had been roughly scratched down with a pencil. It read:

"_Not for love of woman, but in the name of justice and the
fear of God_."

"And I was so cruel," she whispered.

Ah! Honore Grandissime, she was kind to that little writing! She did not
put it back under her pillow; she _kept it warm_, Honore Grandissime,
from that time forth.

CHAPTER XLIV

BAD FOR CHARLIE KEENE

On the same evening of which we have been telling, about the time that
Aurora and Clotilde were dropping their last tear of joy over the
document of restitution, a noticeable figure stood alone at the corner
of the rue du Canal and the rue Chartres. He had reached there and
paused, j