"For six months," he replied irritably, "I have been doing nothing
else--careful--always careful. It becomes unbearable, but where is this
place you speak of--in some other bog?"

I pointed to the left of the trees where Mademoiselle was standing.

"I quite understand," I said politely, "even a day with this paper is
quite enough, but it is not a bog and you can reach it quite easily. You
see where I point? Simply follow that field in that direction for half a
mile, perhaps, and you will come to a road. Turn to your right, and after
three miles you will see a house, the first house you will meet, in fact.
It has a gambrel roof and overlooks the river. Simply knock on the door
so--one knock, a pause, and three in succession. It will be understood.
You have a horse?"

"What is left of him," he replied, "though the good God knows how he has
carried me along this far. Yes, he is attached to a post. Well, we are
off, and may the paper stay still till we get it. You wait here?"

"In case we are followed," I said.

He pointed straight before him.

"I have been hearing noises over there, breaking of branches and shouts."

"Then in the name of heaven ride on," I said, and added as an
afterthought, "and turn out to the side if you see anyone coming."

The pleasure I took in seeing him leave was not entirely unalloyed. As I
walked to the oak thicket where Mademoiselle was waiting, I even had some
vague idea of calling him back, for I do not believe in doing anyone a
turn that is worse than necessary. Yet there was only one other way I
could think of to keep him silent, besides sending him where he was
going. She was feeding the horse handfuls of grass.

"It is quite all right, Mademoiselle," I said. "Let us move to the house.
It may be more comfortable in the doorway."

We stood silently for a while, listening to the wind and the dull
monotonous roar of the surf, while the night grew blacker. I listened
attentively, but there was no sound. Surely he was coming.

"Tell me, Monsieur," said Mademoiselle, "what sort of woman was
your mother?"

Unbidden, a picture of her came before me, that seemed strangely
out of place.

"She was very beautiful," I said.

She sighed.

"And very proud," said Mademoiselle.

"Yes, very proud. Why did she call him a thief, Monsieur?"

But I did not answer.

"You are certain your father is coming?" she asked finally.

"I think there is no doubt," I told her. "I have seen him ride,