d at him and made no other answer. While she spoke to Lisa
he sat and watched them.

"It would be like a woman to do such a thing," he pursued. "They are
so inconvenient--women. They get married for fun, and then one fine
Thursday they find they have missed all the fun, like one who comes late
to the theatre--when the music is over."

He went to the table and examined the morning marketing, which Lisa
had laid out in preparation for dinner. Of some of her purchases he
approved, but he laughed aloud at a lettuce which had no heart, and at
such a buyer.

Then Desiree attracted his scrutiny again.

"Yes," he said, half to himself, "I see it. You are in love. Just
Heaven, I know! I have had them in love with me.... Barlasch."

"That must have been a long time ago," answered Desiree with her gay
laugh, only giving him half her attention.

"Yes, it was a century ago. But they were the same then as they are now,
as they always will be--inconvenient. They waited, however, till they
were grown up!"

And with his ever-ready accusing finger he drew Desiree's attention to
her own slimness. They were left alone for a minute while Lisa answered
a knock at the door, during which time Barlasch sat in grim silence.

"It is a letter," said Lisa, returning. "A sailor brought it."

"Another?" said Barlasch, with a gesture of despair.

"Can you give me news of Charles?" Desiree read, in a writing that was
unknown to her. "I shall wait a reply until midnight on board the
Elsa, lying off the Krahn-Thor." The letter bore the signature, "Louis
d'Arragon." Desiree turned slowly and went upstairs, carrying it folded
small in her closed hand.

She was alone in the house, for Mathilde was out and her father had not
yet returned from his evening walk. She stood at the head of the stairs,
where the last of the daylight filtered through the barred window, and
read the letter again. Then she turned and gave a slight start to see
Barlasch at the foot of the stairs beckoning to her. He made no attempt
to come up, but stood on the mat like a dog that has been forbidden the
upper rooms.

"Is it about your father?" he asked, in a hoarse whisper.

"No!"

He made a gesture commanding secrecy and silence. Then he went to close
the kitchen door and returned on tip-toe.

"It is," he explained, "that they are talking of him in the cafes. There
are many to be arrested to-morrow. They say the patron is one of them,
and employs himself in plotting