ere is a good inn at La Fleche," I said, to continue the talk.

"No doubt. I stopped only a short while, at a small house at the edge of
the town. I was in some haste."

"Then you will be starting early to-morrow?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

I resolved to be watchful and start at the same time. But lest he should
have other company, or something should interfere, I decided not to lose
the present opportunity. So I began forthwith:

"I have met a gentleman who comes, I think, from Montoire, or at least
is acquainted there,--a Monsieur de Merri, of about my own age."

The young fellow looked at me with a sudden sharpness of curiosity,
which took me back: but I did not change countenance, and he had
repossessed himself by the time he replied:

"There is a Monsieur de Merri, who is about as old as you, but he does
not live at Montoire. He sometimes comes there."

Here was comfort, at least: I should not find myself among the dead
man's relations, seeking vengeance.

"No doubt he has friends there?" I ventured.

"No doubt, Monsieur," answered the young man, merely out of politeness,
and looking vague.

"Probably he visits people in the neighbourhood," I tried again.

"I cannot say," was the reply, still more absently given.

"Or lives at the inn," I pursued.

"It may be so." The young fellow was now glancing about the kitchen, as
if to rid himself of this talk.

"Or perhaps he dwells in private lodgings when he is at Montoire," I
went on resolutely.

"It might well be. There are private lodgings to be had there."

"Do you know much of this Monsieur de Merri?" I asked pointblank, in
desperation.

"I have seen him two or three times."

"Where?"

"Where? At Montoire, of course." The speaker, in surprise, scrutinized
me again with the keen look he had shown before.

It was plain, from his manner, that he chose to be close-mouthed on the
subject of Monsieur de Merri. He was one of those people who generally
have a desire to talk of themselves and all their affairs, but who can
be suddenly very secretive on some particular matter or occasion. I saw
that I must give him up, for that time at least. Perhaps on the road
next day his unwillingness to be communicative about Monsieur de Merri
would have passed away. But meanwhile, what was the cause of that
unwillingness? Did he know, after all, what had occurred at La Fleche,
and had he begun to suspect me? I inwardly cursed his reticence, and
went soon to bed, that I