hundred years old. As she walked demurely into the dining-room on her
father's arm, I thought in truth that she would rather have skipped
and run thither.

During dinner mention was made of the Baron Giraud, and I learnt that
that financier was among the Vicomte's friends. The name was not new
to me, although the Baron's personality was unknown.

The Baron was one of the mushrooms of that day--a nobleman of finance,
a true product of Paris, highly respected and honoured there. John
Turner knew him well, and was ponderously silent respecting him.

"But why," asked Lucille, when her father had delivered a little
oration in favour of the rich man, "does Monsieur Giraud dye his
hair?"

There was a little laugh and a silence at this display of naive
wisdom. Then it was Madame who spoke.

"No doubt he feels himself unworthy to wear it white," she said,
rising from the table.

I was given to understand that the remainder of the evening was my
own, and the Vicomte himself showed me the small staircase descending
from the passage between my study and his own, and presented me with
a key to the door at the foot of it. This door, he explained, opened
to a small passage running between the Rue des Palmiers and the Rue
Courte. It would serve me for egress and entry at any time without
reference to the servants or disturbance to the house.

"I would not give the key to the first comer," he added.

I learnt later that he and I alone had access to the door of which the
servants had no key, nor ever passed there. The same evening I availed
myself of my privilege and went to my club, where over a foolish game
of chance I won a year's salary.

Such was the beginning of my career in the service of the Vicomte de
Clericy. During the weeks that followed I found that there was, in
fact, plenty for me to do were the estates to be properly worked--to
be administered as we Englishmen are called upon to treat our property
to-day, that is to say, like a sponge, to be squeezed to its last
drop. I soon discovered that the Vicomte was in the hands of
old-fashioned stewards, who, besides feathering their own nests, were
not making the best of the land. My conscience, it must be admitted,
was at work again--and I had thought it finally vanquished.

Here was I, admitted to the Hotel Clericy--welcomed in the family
circle, and trusted there in the immediate vicinity of and with daily
access to as innocent and trusting a soul as ever stepped