trespass.

"Not worth speaking of," I returned in as calm a voice as I could
muster; "the birds are mostly gone. And do you shoot also, may I ask?"

"It is an incorrigible habit with me," he confessed in a more reassured
tone. "I have, however, not done so badly of late with the birds; I
killed seventeen plovers this morning--a fine lot."

Here his tone changed. All his former reserve had vanished. "Come with
me," said he; "I insist; I'll show you what I killed; they make a pretty
string, I assure you. You shall see, too, presently, my house; it is the
one with the new roof. Do you happen to have seen it?"

This came with a certain note of seriousness in his voice.

"No, but I am certain it must be a luxury in the debris," I laughed;
"but," I added, "I am afraid I must postpone the pleasure until another
time." I was still undecided as to my course.

Again his tone changed to one of extreme courtesy, as if he had been
quick to notice my hesitation.

"I know it is late," said he, "but I must insist on your accepting my
hospitality. The main road lies at the end of the plateau, and I will
see you safely out to it and on your way home."

I paused before answering. Under the circumstances, I knew, I could not
very well refuse, and yet I had a certain dread of accepting too easily.
In France such refusals are sometimes considered as insults. "Thank
you," I said at last, resolved to see the adventure out; "I accept with
pleasure," adding with a laugh and speaking to his shadowy bulk, for I
could not yet see his face:

"What silent mystery, what an uncanny fascination this place has about
it! Even our meeting seems part of it. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, there is a peculiar charm here," he replied, in a more cautious
tone as he led me into a narrow trail, "a charm that has taken hold of
me, so that I bury myself here occasionally; it is a rest from Paris."

From Paris, eh? I thought--then he does not belong to the coast.

I edged nearer, determined now to catch a glimpse of his features, the
light of the moon having grown stronger. As he turned, its rays
illumined his face and at the same instant a curious gleam flashed into
his eyes.

Again the Baron da Granja stood before me.

Da Granja! the rich Brazilian! President of one of the biggest foreign
banks in Paris. Man of the world, with a string of horses famous for
years on a dozen race tracks. What the devil was he doing here? Had the
cares of his bank drive