f course. Bartram-Haugh, it is so like Dover, as all
philosophers know.'

I sat down in total silence, looking out into the deep and dark enclosure,
and trying to comprehend the reality and the meaning of all this.

'Well, Madame, I suppose you will be able to satisfy my uncle of your
fidelity and intelligence. But to me it seems that his money has been
ill-spent, and his directions anything but well observed.'

'Ah, ha! Never mind; I think he will forgive me,' laughed Madame.

Her tone frightened me. I began to think, with a vague but overpowering
sense of danger, that she had acted under the Machiavellian directions of
her superior.

'You have brought me back, then, by my uncle's orders?'

'Did I say so?'

'No; but what you have said can have no other meaning, though I can't
believe it. And why have I been brought here? What is the object of all
this duplicity and trick. I _will_ know. It is not possible that my uncle,
a gentleman and a kinsman, can be privy to so disreputable a manouvre.'

'First you will eat your breakfast, dear Maud; next you can tell your story
to your uncle, Monsieur Ruthyn; and then you shall hear what he thinks of
my so terrible misconduct. What nonsense, cheaile! Can you not think how
many things may 'appen to change a your uncle's plans? Is he not in danger
to be arrest? Bah! You are cheaile still; you cannot have intelligence more
than a cheaile. Dress yourself, and I will order breakfast.'

I could not comprehend the strategy which had been practised on me. Why had
I been so shamelessly deceived? If it were decided that I should remain
here, for what imaginable reason had I been sent so far on my journey to
France? Why had I been conveyed back with such mystery? Why was I removed
to this uncomfortable and desolate room, on the same floor with the
apartment in which Charke had met his death, and with no window commanding
the front of the house, and no view but the deep and weed-choked court,
that looked like a deserted churchyard in a city?

'I suppose I may go to my own room?' I said.

'Not to-day, my dear cheaile, for it was all disarrange when we go 'way;
'twill be ready again in two three days.'

'Where is Mary Quince?' I asked.

'Mary Quince!--she has follow us to France,' said Madame, making what in
Ireland they call a bull.

'They are not sure where they will go or what will do for day or two more.
I will go and get breakfast. Adieu for a moment.'

Madame was out of t