back again he put a large key on the dining-table.

"There!" he said, with a grunt of satisfaction. "Now there will be
nothing to disturb us any more."

They all three sat down at the round dining-table. To Sylvia's surprise
a very simple meal was set out before them. There was only one small dish
of galantine. When Sylvia Bailey had been to supper with the Wachners
before, there had always been two or three tempting cold dishes, and
some dainty friandises as well, the whole evidently procured from the
excellent confectioner who drives such a roaring trade at Lacville.
To-night, in addition to the few slices of galantine, there was only
a little fruit.

Then a very odd thing happened.

L'Ami Fritz helped first his wife and himself largely, then Sylvia more
frugally. It was perhaps a slight matter, the more so that Monsieur
Wachner was notoriously forgetful, being ever, according to his wife,
absorbed in his calculations and "systems." But all the same, this
extraordinary lack of good manners on her host's part added to Sylvia's
feeling of strangeness and discomfort.

Indeed, the Wachners were both very unlike their usual selves this
evening. Madame Wachner had suddenly become very serious, her stout red
face was set in rather grim, grave lines; and twice, as Sylvia was eating
the little piece of galantine which had been placed on her plate by L'Ami
Fritz, she looked up and caught her hostess's eyes fixed on her with a
curious, alien scrutiny.

When they had almost finished the meat, Madame Wachner suddenly exclaimed
in French.

"Fritz! You have forgotten to mix the salad! Whatever made you forget
such an important thing? You will find what is necessary in the drawer
behind you."

Monsieur Wachner made no answer. He got up and pulled the drawer of the
buffet open. Taking out of it a wooden spoon and fork, he came back to
the table and began silently mixing the salad.

The two last times Sylvia had been at the Chalet des Muguets, her
host, in deference to her English taste, had put a large admixture of
vinegar in the salad dressing, but this time she saw that he soused the
lettuce-leaves with oil.

At last, "Will you have some salad, Mrs. Bailey?" he said brusquely, and
in English. He spoke English far better than did his wife.

"No," she said. "Not to-night, thank you!"

And Sylvia, smiling, looked across at Madame Wachner, expecting to see in
the older woman's face a humorous appreciation of the fact tha