inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of degenerate
speech as cock-sure.

And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himself
at the Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence
sitting alone in the veranda.

"Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices. They have gone
away," she mentioned, casually, in the course of conversation.

"Suddenly?"

"Oh no," she answered, carelessly, and wrote her name in a clear firm
hand on the document before her. And John Turner looked dense.

CHAPTER XIX. IN THE BREACH

The Marquis de Gemosac was sitting at the open window of the little
drawing-room in the only habitable part of the chateau. From his
position he looked across the courtyard toward the garden where stiff
cypress-trees stood sentry among the mignonette and the roses, now in
the full glory of their autumn bloom.

Beyond the garden, the rough outline of the walls cut a straight line
across the distant plains, which melted away into the haze of the
marsh-lands by the banks of the Gironde far to the westward.

The Marquis had dined. They dined early in those days in France, and
coffee was still served after the evening meal.

The sun was declining toward the sea in a clear copper-coloured sky, but
a fresh breeze was blowing in from the estuary to temper the heat of the
later rays.

The Marquis was beating time with one finger, and within the room, to an
impromptu accompaniment invented by Juliette, Barebone was singing:

C'est le Hasard,
Qui, tot ou tard,
Ici-bas nous seconde;
Car,
D'un bout du monde
A l'autre bout,
Le Hasard seul fait tout.

He broke off with a laugh in which Juliette's low voice joined.

"That is splendid, mademoiselle," he cried, and the Marquis clapped his
thin hands together.

Un tel qu'on vantait
Par hasard etait
D'origine assez mince;
Par hasard il plut,
Par hasard il fut
Baron, ministre et prince:
C'est le Hasard,
Qui, tot ou tard,
Ici bas nous seconde;
Car,
D'un bout du monde
A l'autre bout,
Le Hasard seul fait tout.

"There--that is all I know. It is the only song I sing."

"But there are other verses," said Juliette, resting her hands on the
keys of the wheezy spinet which must have been a hundred years old.
"What are they about?"

"I do not know, mademoiselle," he answered, looking down at her. "I
think it