deserted, and they talked
at their ease.

"There is nothing for it but to wake up my driver and make him take us
back to Ipswich to-night. To-morrow morning we can take train to London
and be there almost as soon as John Turner realises that you have given
him the slip," said Colville, cheerily.

"And then?"

"And then back to France--where the sun shines, my friend, and the
spring is already in the air. Think of that! It is so, at least, at
Gemosac, for I heard from the Marquis before I quitted Paris. Your
disappearance has nearly broken a heart or two down there, I can tell
you. The old Marquis was in a great state of anxiety. I have never seen
him so upset about anything, and Juliette did not seem to be able to
offer him any consolation."

"Back to France?" echoed Barebone, not without a tone of relief, almost
of exultation, in his voice. "Will it be possible to go back there,
since we have to run away from Farlingford?"

"Safer there than here," replied Colville. "It may sound odd, but it
is true. De Gemosac is one of the most powerful men in France--not
intellectually, perhaps, but by reason of his great name--and they would
not dare to touch a protege or a guest of his. If you go back there
now you must stay at Gemosac; they have put the chateau into a more
habitable condition, and are ready to receive you."

He turned and glanced at Loo's face in the moonlight.

"There will be a difference, you understand. You will be a different
person from what you were when last there," he went on, in a muffled
voice.

"Yes, I understand," replied Barebone, gravely. Already the dream was
taking shape--Colville's persuasive voice had awakened him to find that
it was no dream, but a reality--and Farlingford was fading back into the
land of shadows. It was only France, after all, that was real.

"That journey of ours," explained Colville, vaguely, "has made an
extraordinary difference. The whole party is aroused and in deadly
earnest now."

Barebone made no answer, and they walked on in meditative silence toward
the roadside inn, which stood up against the southern sky a few hundred
yards ahead.

"In fact," Colville added, after a silence, "the ball is at your feet,
Barebone. There can be no looking back now."

And again Barebone made no answer. It was a tacit understanding, then.

For greater secrecy, Barebone walked on toward Ipswich alone, while
Colville went into the inn to arouse his driver, whom he found
s