opposite the entrance and appeared to lead--for one of them stood
open--to a couple of closets: bedrooms they could hardly be called, yet
in one of them Claude knew that his father had slept. And his heart
warmed to it.

The house was still; the room was somewhat dark, for the windows were
low and long, strongly barred, and shaded by the trees, through the cool
greenery of which the light filtered in. The young man stood a moment,
and hearing no footstep or movement wondered what he should do. At
length he ventured to the door of the staircase and, opening it,
coughed. Still no one answered or came, and unwilling to intrude farther
he turned about and waited on the hearth. In a corner behind the settle
he noticed two half pikes and a long-handled sword; on the seat of the
settle itself lay a thin folio bound in stained sheepskin. A log
smouldered on the hearth, and below the great black pot which hung over
it two or three pans and pipkins sat deep among the white ashes. Save
for these there was no sign in the room of a woman's hand or use. And he
wondered. Certainly the young man who had departed so hurriedly had said
it was Madame Royaume's. There could be no mistake.

Well, he would go and come again. But even as he formed the resolution,
and turned towards the outer door--which he had left open--he heard a
faint sound above, a step light but slow. It seemed to start from the
uppermost floor of all, so long was it in descending; so long was it
before, waiting on the hearth cap in hand, he saw a shadow darken the
line below the staircase door. A second later the door opened and a
young girl entered and closed it behind her. She did not see him;
unconscious of his presence she crossed the floor and shut the outer
door.

There was a something in her bearing which went to the heart of the
young man who stood and saw her for the first time; a depression, a
dejection, an I know not what, so much at odds with her youth and her
slender grace, that it scarcely needed the sigh with which she turned
to draw him a pace nearer. As he moved their eyes met. She, who had not
known of his presence, recoiled with a low cry and stared wide-eyed: he
began hurriedly to speak.

"I am the son of M. Gaston Mercier, of Chatillon," he said, "who lodged
here formerly. At least," he stammered, beginning to doubt, "if this be
the house of Madame Royaume, he lodged here. A young man who met me at
the door said that Madame lived here, and had a