ur minds
reverted to Le Bour.

The two officials of the law were before us.

"We regret to disturb you, messieurs," began the taller of the two
pleasantly as he extracted a note-book from a leather case next to his
revolver. "But"--and he shrugged his military shoulders--"it is for the
little affair at Hirondelette."

"Which one of us is elected?" asked Tanrade grimly.

"Ah! _Bon Dieu!_" returned the tall one; half apologetically. "A
_proces-verbal_ unfortunately for you, Monsieur Tanrade. Read the
charge," he said to the short one, who had now unfolded a paper, cleared
his throat, and began to read in a monotonous tone.

"Monsieur Gaston Emile Le Bour, agriculturist at Hirondelette, charges
Monsieur Charles Louis Ernest Tanrade, born in Paris, soldier of the
Thirteenth Infantry, musician, composer, with flagrant trespass in his
buckwheat on hectare number seven, armed with the gun of percussion on
the thirtieth of September at ten-forty-five in the morning."

"I was _not_ in his _sacre_ buckwheat!" declared Tanrade, and he
described the entire incident of the morning.

"Take monsieur's denial in detail," commanded the tall one.

His companion produced a small bottle of ink and began to write slowly
with a scratchy pen, while we stood in silence.

"Kindly add your signature, monsieur," said the tall one, when the
bottle was again recorked.

Tanrade signed.

The gendarmes gravely saluted and were about to withdraw when Tanrade
asked if he was "the only unfortunate on the list."

"Ah, _non_!" confessed the tall one. "There is a similar charge against
Monsieur le Vicomte--we have just called upon him. Also against Monsieur
le Baron."

"And what did they say?"

"_Eh bien_, monsieur, a general denial, just as monsieur has made."

"The affair is ridiculous," exclaimed Tanrade hotly.

"That must be seen," returned the tall one firmly.

Again we all saluted and they left us, recovered their bicycles, and
went spinning off back to Pont du Sable.

"_Nom d'un chien!_" muttered Tanrade, while the cure and I stared
thoughtfully at a clump of grass.

"Why didn't he get me?" I ventured, after a moment.

"Foreigner," explained Tanrade. "You're in luck, old boy--no record of
identity, and how the devil do you suppose Le Bour could pronounce your
name?"

Half an hour later I found the Vicomte, who lived close to our village.
He was pacing up and down his salon in a rage.

"I was _not_ in the buckwheat!" he de