"Why not?"

"Why not, indeed? He will have good use for it. He has always been a
spendthrift."

"What do you mean?" cried Lucille, laying down her work. "What can you
mean, Isabella?"

"Nothing," replied the other, who had risen, and was standing by the
mantelpiece looking down at the wood fire with one foot extended to
its warmth. "Nothing--only I do not understand."

It would appear that Isabella's lack of comprehension took a more
active form than that displayed in the conversation reported, _tant
bien que mal_, from subsequent hearsay. Indeed, it has been my
experience that when a woman fails to comprehend a mystery--whether it
be her own affair or not--it is rarely for the want of trying to sift
it.

That Isabella Gayerson made further attempt to discover my motives in
watching over Madame de Clericy and Lucille was rendered apparent to
me not very long afterwards. It was, in fact, in the month of
November, while Paris was still besieged, and rumours of Commune and
Anarchy reached us in tranquil England, that I had the opportunity of
returning in small part the hospitality of Alphonse Giraud.

Wounded and taken prisoner during the disastrous retreat upon the
capital, my friend obtained after a time his release under promise to
take no further part in the war, a promise the more freely given that
his hurt was of such a nature that he could never hope to swing a
sword in his right hand again.

This was forcibly brought home to me when I met Giraud at Charing
Cross station, when he extended to me his left hand.

"The other I cannot offer you," he cried, "for a sausage-eating
Uhlan, who smelt shockingly of smoke, cut the tendons of it."

He lifted the hand hidden in a black silk handkerchief worn as a
sling, and swaggered along the platform with a military air and
bearing far above his inches.

We dined together, and he passed that night in my rooms in London,
where I had a spare bed. He evinced by his every word and action that
spontaneous affection which he had bestowed upon me. We had, moreover,
a merry evening, and only once, so far as I remember, did he look at
me with a grave face.

"Dick," he then said, "can you lend me a thousand francs? I have not
one sou."

"Nor I," was my reply. "But you can have a thousand francs."

"The Vicomtesse writes me that you are supplying them with money
during the present standstill in France. How is that?" he said,
putting the notes I gave him into his purse