e 're wasting time!"

"On the contrary, madame," the Captain assured her with overwhelming
sincerity.

"Yes, we are. And we 're not safe here. Suppose the Count saw us!"

"Why, yes, that would be--"

"That would be fatal," said she decisively, and the Captain did not
feel himself in a position to contradict her. He contented himself
with taking her hand again and pressing it softly. Certainly she made
a man feel very sympathetic.

"But I must see you again--"

"Indeed I trust so, madame."

"On business."

"Call it what you will, so that--"

"Not here. Do you know the village? No? Well, listen. If you go
through the village, past the inn and up the hill, you will come to a
Cross by the roadside. Strike off from that across the grass, again
uphill. When you reach the top you will find a hollow, and in it a
shepherd's hut--deserted. Meet me there at dusk to-morrow, about six,
and I will tell you how to help me."

"I will be there," said the Captain.

The lady held out both her hands--small, white, ungloved, and unringed.
The Captain's eyes rested a moment on the finger that should have worn
the golden band which united her to his friend the Count. It was not
there; she had sent it back--with the marriage contract. With a sigh,
strangely blended of pain and pleasure, he bent and kissed her hands.
She drew them away quickly, gave a nervous little laugh, and ran off.
The Captain watched her till she disappeared round the corner of the
barricade, and then with another deep sigh betook himself to his own
quarters.

The cat did not mew in the passage that night. None the less Captain
Dieppe's slumbers were broken and disturbed.

CHAPTER IV

THE INN IN THE VILLAGE

While confessing that her want of insight into Paul de Roustache's true
character was inconceivably stupid, the Countess of Fieramondi
maintained that her other mistakes (that was the word she
chose--indiscretions she rejected as too severe) were extremely venial,
and indeed, under all the circumstances, quite natural. It was true
that she had promised to hold no communication with Paul after that
affair of the Baroness von Englebaden's diamond necklace, in which his
part was certainly peculiar, though hardly so damnatory as Andrea chose
to assume. It was true that, when one is supposed to be at Mentone for
one's health one should not leave one's courier there (in order to
receive letters) and reside instead with one's maid at