e is a gentleman, and steals her
portrait from his sister!"

Had I not been so occupied with my own fate in the outcome of this
inquisition, I should have been sorry for Auguste. And yet this feeling
could not have lasted, for the young gentleman sprang to his feet, cast a
glance at me which was not without malignance, and faced his father, his
lips twitching with anger and fear. Monsieur de St. Gre sat undisturbed.

"He is so much in love with the portrait, Monsieur, that he loses it."

"Loses it!" cried Auguste.

"Precisely," said his father, dryly, "for Mr. Ritchie tells me he found
it--at Madame Bouvet's, was it not, Monsieur?"

Auguste looked at me.

"Mille diables!" he said, and sat down again heavily.

"Mr. Ritchie has returned it to your sister, a service which puts him
heavily in our debt," said Monsieur de St. Gre. "Now, sir," he added to
me, rising, "you have had a tiresome day. I will show you to your room,
and in the morning we will begin our--investigations."

He clapped his hands, the silent mulatto appeared with a new candle, and
I followed my host down the gallery to a room which he flung open at the
far end. A great four-poster bedstead was in one corner, and a polished
mahogany dresser in the other.

"We have saved some of our family furniture from the fire, Mr. Ritchie,"
said Monsieur de St. Gre; "that bed was brought from Paris by my father
forty years ago. I hope you will rest well."

He set the candle on the table, and as he bowed there was a trace of an
enigmatical smile about his mouth. How much he knew of Auguste's
transaction I could not fathom, but the matter and the scarcely
creditable part I had played in it kept me awake far into the night. I
was just falling into a troubled sleep when a footstep on the gallery
startled me back to consciousness. It was followed by a light tap on the
door.

"Monsieur Reetchie," said a voice.

It was Monsieur Auguste. He was not an imposing figure in his nightrail,
and by the light of the carefully shaded candle he held in his hand I saw
that he had hitherto deceived me in the matter of his calves. He stood
peering at me as I lay under the mosquito bar.

"How is it I can thank you, Monsieur!" he exclaimed in a whisper.

"By saying nothing, Monsieur," I answered.

"You are noble, you are generous, and--and one day I will give you the
money back," he added with a burst of magniloquence. "You have behave
very well, Monsieur, and I mek you my f