rles had written.

"For myself," said D'Arragon, changing the subject quickly, "I can
now make sure of receiving letters addressed to me in the care of the
English Consul at Riga, or the Consul at Stockholm, should you wish to
communicate with me, or should Madame find leisure to give me news of
her husband."

"Desiree will no doubt take pleasure in keeping you advised of Charles's
progress. As for myself, I fear I am a bad correspondent. Perhaps not a
desirable one in these days," said Sebastian, his face slowly clearing.
He waved the point aside with a gesture that looked out of place on a
hand lean and spare, emerging from a shabby brown sleeve without cuff or
ruffle.

"For I feel assured," he went on, "that we shall continue to hear good
news of your cousin; not only that he is safe and well, but that he
makes progress in his profession. He will go far, I am sure."

D'Arragon bowed his acknowledgment of this kind thought, and rose rather
hastily.

"My best chance of quitting the city unseen," he said, "is to pass
through the gates with the market-people returning to the villages. To
do that, I must not delay."

"The streets are so full," replied Sebastian, glancing out of the
window, "that you will pass through them unnoticed. I see beneath the
trees, a neighbour, Koch the locksmith, who is perhaps waiting to give
me news. While you are saying farewell, I will go out and speak to him.
What he has to tell may interest you and your comrades at sea--may help
your escape from the city this morning."

He took his hat as he spoke and went to the door. Mathilde, thirsting
for the news that seemed to hum in the streets like the sound of bees,
rose and followed him. Desiree and D'Arragon were left alone. She had
gone to the window, and, turning there, she looked back at him over her
shoulder, where he stood by the door watching her.

"So, you see," she said, "there is no other Sebastian."

D'Arragon made no reply. She came nearer to him, her blue eyes sombre
with contempt for the man she had married. Suddenly she pointed to the
chair which D'Arragon had just vacated.

"That is where he sat. He has eaten my father's salt a hundred times,"
she said, with a short laugh. For whithersoever civilization may take
us, we must still go back to certain primaeval laws of justice between
man and man.

"You judge too hastily," said D'Arragon; but she interrupted him with a
gesture of warning.

"I have not judged hastily,"