to his own room. He paused,
examining the wick of the candle he carried in his hand. Then, though
glib of speech, he decided in favour of silence, and went away without
making reply.

Loo sat down in a grey old arm-chair in front of the fire. The house was
astoundingly noiseless, though situated in what had once been the heart
of Paris. It was one of the few houses left in this quarter with a large
garden. And the traffic passing in and out of the Ruelle St. Jacob went
slipshod on its own feet. The busy crackle of the wood was the only
sound to break a silence which seemed part of this vast palace of
memories.

Loo had ridden far and was tired. He smiled grimly at the fire. It is to
be supposed that he was sitting down to the task he had set himself--to
forget Farlingford.

There was a great reception at the Hotel Gemosac that night, and after
twenty years of brooding silence the rooms, hastily set in order, were
lighted up.

There was, as the Marquis had promised, no man or woman present who was
not vouched for by a noble name or by history. As the old man presented
them, their names were oddly familiar to the ear, while each face
looking at Loo seemed to be the face of a ghost looking out of a past
which the world will never forget so long as history lives.

And here, again, was the subtle difference. They no longer talked to
Loo, but stood apart and spoke among themselves in a hushed voice. Men
made their bow to him and met his smile with grave and measuring eyes.
Some made a little set speech, which might mean much or nothing. Others
embarked on such a speech and paused--faltered, and passed on gulping
something down in their throats.

Women made a deep reverence to him and glanced at him with parted lips
and white faces--no coquetry in their eyes. They saw that he was young
and good-looking; but they forgot that he might think the same of them.
Then they passed on and grouped themselves together, as women do in
moments of danger or emotion, their souls instinctively seeking the
company of other souls tuned to catch a hundred passing vibrations of
the heart-strings of which men remain in ignorance. They spoke together
in lowered voices without daring, or desiring perhaps, to turn and look
at him again.

"It only remains," some one said, "for the Duchesse d'Angouleme to
recognise his claim. A messenger has departed for Frohsdorf."

And Barebone, looking at them, knew that there was a barrier between him
an