he lights are dim, and it is
too late to begin again."

He stopped and squared his shoulders and the harshness left his voice.

"You understand, I hope," he added "Give him the paper, Henry." And he
nodded towards Ives de Blanzy.

I drew it from my pocket, and handed it to him in silence.

"Now what is the meaning of this?" said Ives de Blanzy harshly. "This is
not the paper! The cursed thing is blank inside!"

My father snatched it from his hands.

"Blank!" he muttered. "Blank! Clean as the driven snow! Is it possible I
have failed in everything?"

Mademoiselle had moved forward, and touched his arm. He glanced at her
quickly, and slowly his frown vanished.

"Naturally it is blank, captain," said Mademoiselle. "I took the real one
from you this morning when you left it in your volume of Rabelais. I
thought that you might place it there. I am sorry, captain, sorry now
that you made me take you seriously."

The paper dropped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor, but
strangely enough he did not appear chagrined. His gallantry was back with
him again, and with it all his courtesy.

"Ah, Mademoiselle," he said, "I should have known you better. Will there
always be a woman where there is trouble?"

"And you have not made me hate you, Captain," Mademoiselle continued.

"But you, my son," said my father, "you understand?"

I felt his glance, but I could not meet it.

"Yes," I said, "I understand."

"Good," said my father. "Here comes Brutus. And now we shall have our
rum."

"I understand," I said, and my voice seemed unsteady, "that you are a
very brave and upright gentleman."

"The devil!" cried my father.

And then he started and whirled toward the door.

"Ned! Ives!" he called sharply. "What the devil is going on outside?" and
the three of them had darted into the hall.

Clear and distinct through the quiet night had come a shriek and the
report of a pistol.

I started to follow them, but Mademoiselle had laid a hand on my arm,
and was pointing to the table. I lifted first one and then the other
of the two pistols that were lying there. Neither was primed. Neither
was loaded.

"The third one," she said quietly, "Mr. Lawton took. No, no," she
added, as I started toward the door, "Stay here, Monsieur. It is not
your affair."

XVIII

She still stood looking at the pistols on the table. Was she thinking,
as I was, of the irony, and the comedy and the tragedy that had been
so stran