ding a few days at the Stanislaws house some weeks ago
that a young man named Marcel de Moncourt was visiting friends of hers
in France, and claiming to be their cousin. Well, that was a true claim,
as Marcel Senior informed me. He himself came to America when he was
young, to make his fortune, and dropped the "de" out of his name. He
says he'd been rather a black sheep, and didn't deserve to be identified
with his family. We had a powwow, he and I, about young Marcel. There
was, and is, _nothing against_ him in the matter of my father's death. I
won't go into that question at the moment, but I can show good cause
for protecting him then, and protecting him now. When we communicated
with Marcel in France, where he'd arrived from the Argentine he decided
to sail at once for this side, with his cousins the Marquise de Moncourt
and her daughter Adrienne, to whom he is engaged. I've just been telling
Miss Moore that her best friends--present company excepted"--(Peter
smiled at Jack and me) "that her best friends arrived this morning, from
Bordeaux to New York, where Marcel Senior met them and his son at the
dock. He meant to escort them to Kidd's Pines; and they may arrive there
at any minute. When the Marquise and her daughter find that Mr. and Miss
Moore are here, perhaps they'll let Marcel bring them on."

I glanced at Larry. (From hints Pat had innocently let drop, I was sure
the Marquise had been in love with Larry for years: that she'd kept Pat
under her thumb in France, hoping to keep Larry, too. It occurred to me
that things said by the girl in letters to Adrienne--things about Mrs.
Shuster, or Idonia, or both--had probably brought the Marquise flying to
the rescue. Or else, that unspeakable maid of Pat's--Angele--was engaged
by the Marquise to let her know what was "doing" at Kidd's Pines.)
Larry's face was a study! Not a study of "detected guilt." Nothing like
that. He looked sheepish, yet _relieved_. I read in his beautiful eyes
of a boy, "Hurray! I _bet_ she'll somehow rescue me from Shuster yet!"

I should have bet the same, if there'd been any one to bet with, but
there wasn't--unless Mrs. Shuster herself. And she didn't yet realize
what the advent of the Frenchwoman might mean for her future. She was
beginning to recover from the shock of Caspian's fall, and to preen
herself because she was about to meet a real, live Marquise.

She had only a few minutes to wait, for Peter's prophecy came true. The
great Mar