, had
briefly declined. His uncle shrugged his shoulders, and went on with
other work. It would end in his having to go to Paris and finish the
picture there, he said. Perhaps the youth was getting into mischief?
So much the better. He took no newspapers.--What did an artist need of
them? He did not even read the notices sent by a press-cutting agency.
He had a model with him. She amused him for the time, but it was
unsatisfactory working on "The King of Ys" from photographs. He loathed
it, and gave it up.

One evening Gaston and Andree met at the Gare Montparnasse. Jacques
was gone on, but Annette was there. Meyerbeer was there also, at a safe
distance. He saw Gaston purchase tickets, arrange his baggage, and enter
the train. He passed the compartment, looking in. Besides the three,
there was a priest and a young soldier.

Gaston saw him, and guessed what brought him there. He had an impulse to
get out and shake him as would Andree's cub a puppy. But the train moved
off. Meyerbeer found Gaston's porter. A franc did the business.

"Douarnenez, for Audierne, Brittany," was the legend written in
Meyerbeer's note-book. And after that: "Journey twenty hours--change at
Rennes, Redon, and Quimpere."

"Too far. I've enough for now," said Meyerbeer, chuckling, as he walked
away. "But I'd give five hundred dollars to know who Zoug-Zoug is. I'll
make another try."

So he held his sensation back for a while yet. Of the colony at the
Hotel St. Malo, not one of the three who knew would tell him. Bagshot
had sworn the others to secrecy.

Jacques had gone on with the horses. He was to rent a house, or get
rooms at a hotel. He did very well. The horses were stalled at the Hotel
de France. He had rented an old chateau perched upon a hill, with steps
approaching, steps flanking; near it strange narrow alleys, leading
where one cared not to search; a garden of pears and figs, and grapes,
and innumerable flowers and an arbour; a pavilion, all windows, over
an entranceway, with a shrine in it--a be-starred shrine below it; bare
floors, simple furniture, primitiveness at every turn.

Gaston and Andree came, of choice, with a courier in a racketing old
diligence from Douarnenez, and they laughed with delight, tired as they
were, at the new quarters. It must be a gipsy kind of existence at the
most.

There were rooms for Jacques and Annette, who at once set to work with
the help of a little Breton maid. Jacques had not ordered a dinn