St. Gre, to count upon that gentleman's common sense and his former
friendship. But now that the time had come for it, I shrank from such
a meeting. I remembered his passionate affection for Antoinette, I
imagined that he would not listen calmly to one who was in some sort
connected with her unhappiness. So a kind of cowardice drove me first to
Mrs. Temple. She might know much that would save me useless trouble and
blundering.

The shadows of tree-top, thatch, and wall were lengthening as I walked
along the Rue Bourbon. Heedless of what the morrow might bring forth,
the street was given over to festivity. Merry groups were gathered on
the corners, songs and laughter mingled in the court-yards, billiard
balls clicked in the cabarets. A fat, jolly little Frenchman, surrounded
by tripping children, sat in his doorway on the edge of the banquette,
fiddling with all his might, pausing only to wipe the beads of
perspiration from his face.

"Madame Clive, mais oui, Monsieur, l' petite maison en face." Smiling
benignly at the children, he began to fiddle once more.

The little house opposite! Mrs. Temple, mistress of Temple Bow, had come
to this! It was a strange little home indeed, Spanish, one-story, its
dormers hidden by a honeycombed screen of terra-cotta tiles. This screen
was set on the extreme edge of the roof which overhung the banquette
and shaded the yellow adobe wall of the house. Low, unpretentious,
the latticed shutters of its two windows giving it but a scant air of
privacy,--indeed, they were scarred by the raps of careless passers-by
on the sidewalk. The two little battened doors, one step up, were
closed. I rapped, waited, and rapped again. The musician across the
street stopped his fiddling, glanced at me, smiled knowingly at the
children; and they paused in their dance to stare. Then one of the
doors was pushed open a scant four inches, a scarlet madras handkerchief
appeared in the crack above a yellow face. There was a long moment of
silence, during which I felt the scrutiny of a pair of sharp, black
eyes.

"What yo' want, Marse?"

The woman's voice astonished me, for she spoke the dialect of the
American tide-water.

"I should like to see Mrs. Clive," I answered.

The door closed a shade.

"Mistis sick, she ain't see nobody," said the woman. She closed the door
a little more, and I felt tempted to put my foot in the crack.

"Tell her that Mr. David Ritchie is here," I said.

There was an insta