il told me," he answered, with a strange laugh, and, spurring,
they were quickly out of sight. They rode for a couple of miles without
speaking. Jacques knew his master, and did not break the silence.
Presently they came over a hill, and down upon a little bridge. Belward
drew rein, and looked up the valley. About two miles beyond the roofs
and turrets of the Court showed above the trees. A whimsical smile came
to his lips.

"Brillon," he said, "I'm in sight of home."

The half-breed cocked his head. It was the first time that Belward had
called him "Brillon"--he had ever been "Jacques." This was to be a part
of the new life. They were not now hunting elk, riding to "wipe out" a
camp of Indians or navvies, dining the owner of a rancho or a deputation
from a prairie constituency in search of a member, nor yet with
a senator at Washington, who served tea with canvas-back duck and
tooth-picks with dessert. Once before had Jacques seen this new
manner--when Belward visited Parliament House at Ottawa, and was
presented to some notable English people, visitors to Canada. It had
come to these notable folk that Mr. Gaston Belward had relations at
Ridley Court, and that of itself was enough to command courtesy. But
presently, they who would be gracious for the family's sake, were
gracious for the man's. He had that which compelled interest--a
suggestive, personal, distinguished air. Jacques knew his master better
than any one else knew him; and yet he knew little, for Belward was of
those who seem to give much confidence, and yet give little--never more
than he wished.

"Yes, monsieur, in sight of home," Jacques replied, with a dry cadence.

"Say 'sir,' not 'monsieur,' Brillon; and from the time we enter the
Court yonder, look every day and every hour as you did when the judge
asked you who killed Tom Daly."

Jacques winced, but nodded his head. Belward continued:

"What you hear me tell is what you can speak of; otherwise you are
blind and dumb. You understand?" Jacques's face was sombre, but he said
quickly: "Yes--sir."

He straightened himself on his horse, as if to put himself into
discipline at once--as lead to the back of a racer.

Belward read the look. He drew his horse close up. Then he ran an arm
over the other's shoulder.

"See here, Jacques. This is a game that's got to be played up to the
hilt. A cat has nine lives, and most men have two. We have. Now listen.
You never knew me mess things, did you? Well,