of the slope. As I went
crunching over the laborious snow I became aware of a figure striding
awkwardly down the steep scarp to intercept me. It was a man with his
hands in front of him, half stuck in his breeches pockets, and his
shoulders square--a real knock-about fellow. Alfred, of course. He
waited for me by the stone fence.

"Excuse me," he said as I came up.

I came to a halt in front of him and looked into his sullen blue eyes.
He had a certain odd haughtiness on his brows. But his blue eyes stared
insolently at me.

"Do you know anything about a letter--in French--that my wife opened--a
letter of mine?"

"Yes," said I. "She asked me to read it to her."

He looked square at me. He did not know exactly how to feel.

"What was there in it?" he asked.

"Why?" I said. "Don't you know?"

"She makes out she's burnt it," he said.

"Without showing it you?" I asked.

He nodded slightly. He seemed to be meditating as to what line of action
he should take. He wanted to know the contents of the letter: he must
know: and therefore he must ask me, for evidently his wife had taunted
him. At the same time, no doubt, he would like to wreak untold vengeance
on my unfortunate person. So he eyed me, and I eyed him, and neither of
us spoke. He did not want to repeat his request to me. And yet I only
looked at him, and considered.

Suddenly he threw back his head and glanced down the valley. Then he
changed his position and he looked at me more confidentially.

"She burnt the blasted thing before I saw it," he said.

"Well," I answered slowly, "she doesn't know herself what was in it."

He continued to watch me narrowly. I grinned to myself.

"I didn't like to read her out what there was in it," I continued.

He suddenly flushed out so that the veins in his neck stood out, and he
stirred again uncomfortably.

"The Belgian girl said her baby had been born a week ago, and that they
were going to call it Alfred," I told him.

He met my eyes. I was grinning. He began to grin, too.

"Good luck to her," he said.

"Best of luck," said I.

"And what did you tell _her_?" he asked.

"That the baby belonged to the old mother--that it was brother to your
girl, who was writing to you as a friend of the family."

He stood smiling, with the long, subtle malice of a farmer.

"And did she take it in?" he asked.

"As much as she took anything else."

He stood grinning fixedly. Then he broke into a short laugh.

"Goo