ove it the quiet, much
altered face. Mr. Pincornet sighed, and tapped nervously upon the
railing with the fingers of his other hand. "Mr Cary, I have not seen
you since--Pray accept my profound condolences, my sympathy, and my
admiration."

His old pupil thanked him. "All my brother's friends and mine are most
kind. I should guess that you have yourself seen many sorrows, Mr.
Pincornet."

The Frenchman's face twitched. "Many, sir, many. I have experienced the
curse of fortune. Eh bien! one pays, and all is said! I have grieved
with you, sir, I beg you to believe it. I admired your brother."

"He was worthy of admiration."

"In the south, near Mauleon, I lost such an one--brother not in blood
but in friendship, a friendship pure as the flowers of spring and strong
as the vintage of autumn. His own troops turned Jacobin and scoundrel,
mutinied, shot him down--Ha!" Mr. Pincornet drew out his box and took
snuff with trembling fingers. "Well! the King's side was uppermost for a
while down there, and we had our revenge--we had our revenge--we had our
revenge! But," he ended sadly, "it could not bring back my poor
Charles."

"Did you think of it as revenge?"

"No. I thought of it as justice. It was that, sir. Those soldiers paid,
but they owed the debt--every sou they owed it! He was," continued Mr.
Pincornet, "gallant and brave, a great lover, a great fighter. He was to
my heart, though not of my blood--"

"The man that I have lost," said Cary, "was of my blood and to my heart.
I am left alone of an old house. And I pursue justice, Mr. Pincornet, I
pursue justice, I pursue justice."

Mr. Pincornet looked at the face opposite him. "I think, sir, you will
capture that to which you give chase. I have been in town, away from the
country, but I hear the talk, and sometimes I read the papers. You have
not taken the murderer?"

"No!"

"It is strange!" exclaimed the other. "And no one suspected?"

"I suspect," answered Cary sternly, "but the world in general does not,
or suspects wrongly. You were not at the inquest which was held?"

The dancing master shook his head. "In your sorrow, sir, such matters
were, naturally, not brought to your notice. I fell ill, in the first
days of September, at Red Fields, of a cold upon the lungs. I gave up my
art and lay at death's door. My head was light; I heard and I thought of
nothing but the faces and the voices around about Aire where I was
young. I recovered, and, in the stage,