," he murmured. "Ah, my friend, I know the cut of your jib, I
fancy. After poor old Jean Dieppe, are n't you, my boy? A police-spy;
I could tell him among a thousand!"

Equally pleased with the discovery and with his own acuteness in making
it, the Captain laughed aloud; then in an instant he sat bolt upright,
stiff and still, listening intently. For through the barricade had
come two sounds--a sweet, low, startled voice, that cried half in a
whisper, "Heavens, he 's there!" and then the rustle of skirts in hasty
flight. Without an instant's thought--without remembering his promise
to the Count--Dieppe sprang up, ran down the hill, turned the corner of
the barricade, and found himself in the Countess's territory.

He was too late. The lady had made good her escape. There was nobody
to be seen except the large yellow cat: it sat on the path and blinked
gravely at the chagrined Captain.

"Animal, you annoy me!" he said with a stamp of his foot. The cat
rose, turned, and walked away with its tail in the air. "I 'm making a
fool of myself," muttered Dieppe. "Or," he amended with a dawning
smile, "she 's making a fool of me." His smile broadened a little.
"Why not?" he asked. Then he drew himself up and slowly returned to
his own side of the barricade, shaking his head and murmuring, "No, no,
Jean, my boy, no, no! He 's your host--your host, Jean," as he again
seated himself on the bench under the barricade.

Evening was now falling fast; the fisherman was no longer to be seen;
perfect peace reigned over the landscape. Dieppe yawned; perfect peace
was with him a synonym for intolerable dulness.

"Permit me, my dear friend," said a voice behind him, "to read you a
little poem which I have beguiled my leisure by composing."

He turned to find the Count behind him, holding a sheet of paper.

Probably the poet had his composition by heart, for the light seemed
now too dim to read by. However this may be, a rich and tender voice
recited to Dieppe's sympathetic ears as pretty a little appeal (so the
Captain thought) as had ever been addressed by lover to an obdurate or
capricious lady. The Captain's eyes filled with tears as he
listened--tears for the charm of the verse, for the sad beauty of the
sentiment, also, alas, for the unhappy gentleman from whose heart came
verse and sentiment.

"My friend, you love!" cried the Captain, holding out his hand as the
Count ended his poem and folded up the paper.

"A