Her voice, half mocking, half tender, rose at the end in a note of stubbornness.

"Of course, you will do as you please," he muttered.

He felt rather than heard her coming toward him.

"Don't be cross with me," she pleaded. "I—I don't want to go away—from this—from you, Philidor."

He turned quickly—but she thrust out her hand with a frank gesture which he could not misinterpret.

"You're the best friend I have in the world," she said.

He took her hand in both of his and held it a moment.

"That's something," he muttered. "I'll try to be—to deserve your faith in me."

He looked so woebegone that her heat went out to him, but she only laughed gaily.

"You'll not be rid of me so easily, Monsieur. I'm not going, do you hear?"

He shrugged and smiled.

"There!" she smiled. "I knew you wouldn't refuse me. You're an angel, Philidor, and I shall reward you."

She touched P�re GuŽgou's blossom to her lips, then put it deftly into the lapel of his coat.

"It is the Order of the Golden Rose, mon ami, and its motto is Sincere et Constanter. You will remember that motto, Philidor, and however mad, however inconsistent or incomprehensible I may be, know that I am bound to you, apprenticed to learn the trade of living and that not until you send me away will I ever leave you."

He smiled and lifted the blossom to his lips.

"Friendship?" he asked.

"Yes, that always—whatever else—"

She stopped suddenly as his eyes eagerly alight sought her face, and then turning quickly she fled to the kitchen of M�re GuŽgou and upstairs away from him.

The GuŽgou family made good its promise, and they supped upon the fat of VallŽcy, M�re GuŽgou waiting upon them, her good man bringing from the cellar a cob-webbed bottle which dated from a vintage which was still spoken of in the valley with reverence. A brave wine it was, such as one remembers in after days, and a brave night for Philidor whose heart was singing.

"Ah! la jeunesse!" sighed Madame GuŽgou, setting down her glass when the healths were drunk. "I, too, Mademoiselle, was once young."

Yvonne patted her cheek gently.

"Age is only in the heart, Madame," she said.

"Non, ma belle," cackled GuŽgou from his corner. "It's in the joints."

"Tais-toi, Jules," scolded his wife. "What should lovers care about thy joints."

"My joints are my joints," he creaked stubbornly. "When one has ninety years—"

"Ninety!" cried Yvonne. "Monsieur carries his years lightly. I should not have said that he had over sixty."

"Say no more, Mademoiselle," put in M�re GuŽgou. "You will render him conceited."

Indeed it seemed that the old man had already forgotten his joints, for he poured out another glass of wine and was pledging Yvonne with toothless gayety.

"Vos beaux yeux, Mademoiselle," he creaked gallantly, "and to your good fortune, Monsieur Philidor."

"To your roses, Monsieur GuŽgou," replied Philidor. "In the whole of the Eure et Oise there are not such roses. To your omelette, Madame. In the country there is not such another!"

With these compliments and in others like them the minutes passed quickly. Yvonne's eyes avoided Philidor's, though he frequently sought them. Nor was he dismayed when, in response to Madame GuŽgou's interest query as to when they would marry, Yvonne shrugged her shoulders indifferently and sighed.

"Oh, I do not know, Madame. Often I think—never. One marries and that is the end of romance. One lover—pouf! When one may have many."

She tossed her chin in the direction of Philidor, who looked at her over his chicken bone.

"If one has but one lover," she went on, "he must have all the virtues of the many and none of the faults. He must sing when we are gay, weep when we are sad, and make love to us while doing either. Enfin, he must be what no man is. Voyez-vous?" and she pointed the finger of scorn at Philidor. "He eats just as you or I."

Madame GuŽgou laughed.

"What you require is no man at all. Mademoiselle Yvonne, but a saint."

"Perhaps," she finished, yawning. "But, bien entendu, I'm in no hurry."

When the dinner was finished, Yvonne helped M�re GuŽgou with the dishes, and when that was done went straightway to her room, with no other word for Philidor than a "Bon soir," and a nod of the head.

Philidor sat for a long while in the arbor smoking a pipe. He had much to think about. One by one the lights went out, and the village grew quiet. The moon rose over the forest on the hilltop beyond the stream, and he stretched his limbs and smiled at it in drowsy content. He was so wrapped in his reflections that he hardly heard a voice which came to him over the yellow roses.

"Bonne nuit, Philidor."

"Hermia!"

"You're to go to bed—at once."

"I couldn't. Imagine a saint going to bed."

"You're not a saint. You're a prowler."

"Let me prowl. I'm happy."

"Why should you be?"

"I love you."

The shutter above him closed abruptly. He waited in the shadow of the wall looking upward. There was no sound.

CHAPTER XVIII

A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY

Clarissa carried a double burden the next day, but she breasted the keen morning air so briskly that whatever her own thoughts upon the subject she gave no sign of her increasing responsibilities. Yet Cupid sat perched upon the pack which Philidor had been at such pains to fasten. Yvonne alone of the three was out of humor and she moved along silently, suppressing the joyous mood of her companion by answers in monosyllables and a forbidding expression which defied conciliation. As nothing seemed to please her, Philidor, too, relapsed into silence and swinging his stick, walked on ahead, whistling gaily. But that only provoked her mood the more, and when she overtook him she made him stop.

His silence seemed even more exasperating.

"Oh, if you have nothing to say to me," she said petulantly at last, "I'd much rather you whistled."

He glanced at her before replying.

"You motto of the Golden Rose needs amending," he said.

"What would you add?"

"Patience," he laughed.

"Clarissa is patient," she sniffed. "The bon Dieu preserve me from the patient man."

It was clear that she meant to affront him and she succeeded admirably, for Philidor flushed to the brows. Then catching her in his arms without more ado, he kissed her full on the lips.

"I'm no more patient that I should be," he said.

She flung away from him, pale and red by turns, struggling between anger and incomprehension.

"Oh!" she stammered at last. "That you could!"

She brushed the back of her hand across her lips and then her eyes blazing at him, turned and walked rigidly on her way. He watched her a moment, his anger cooling quickly, then caught the bridle of Clarissa who had taken advantage of this interlude to browse by the wayside. Cupid had fled!

Markham drove the beast before him and strode after, his eyes on the small figure which had almost reached the turn in the road. She walked with a quick stride, her head turning neither to the left nor right, but he knew that her gaze, fixed upon the road before her, still blazed with resentment. He goaded the donkey into a more rapid pace, but try as he might he could not come up with her, and so giving up the chase he let Clarissa choose her own gait, lighted a pipe to compose his spirit and followed leisurely in the steps of outraged dignity.

It was not until she came to a cross-roads that she stopped and waited for him. When he arrived with Clarissa, already chastened and even prepared for humility, she surprised him by smiling as though nothing had happened.

"Which way, Philidor?" she asked.

He had already seen the towers of Verneuil from the hilltops behind them and indicated.

"I'm sorry, Hermia," he said softly. "Will you forgive me?"

She shrugged. "Oh, it's of no consequence. I've been kissed before," she said.

His gaze was lowered, his jaw set.

"You provoked it—"

"Did I? I know now how you consider me. I did not believe you to be that kind of a man."

"What kind of a man?"

"The man of promiscuous gallantries."

"I'm not—"

She shrugged and turned away.

"Your record is against you."

He found no reply and she laughed at him.

"When I wish to be kissed," she said brazenly, "I usually find a way of letting men know it."

"You are speaking heresies," he said slowly. "That is not true."

"It is the truth, John Markham. But I did not choose your companionship for that purpose."

"No, no, don't!" he pleaded contritely. "I've never thought that of you. We've had a code of our own, Hermia—all our own. Last night you made me happy. I dreamed of you, child, that you cared for me and I—"

She halted suddenly, her slight figure barring the way, her eyes flashing furiously.

"We'll have no more of that nonsense," she cried. "Do you hear? When I ask for love—uncomplaining—unselfish, I know where to seek it." She reached up suddenly, snatched P�re GuŽgou's faded blossom from his button-hole and throwing it in the road, ground it under her heel. "The Order of the Golden Rose is not for you, Monsieur Philidor," she finished. And before he was really awake to the full extent of his disaster was again on her way.

They entered Verneuil in a procession, Hermia in the lead, the donkey following, and Philidor, now thoroughly disillusioned, bringing up the rear. He was thinking deeply, his gaze on the graceful lines of her intolerant back, aware that she had paid him in full for his temerity, and wondering in an aimless way how soon she would be taking the train for Paris. He had done what he could to atone but some instinct warned him against further contrition.

His judgment was excellent. As they entered the street of the town she stopped and waited for him to join her.

"You'll unpack my orchestra if you please," she said acidly. "I'm going through the town alone."

He laid his hand on the strap at which she was already fingering, his manner coolly assertive.

"No," he said quietly. "You'll not go alone. You're in my charge. Where you go, I go—unless of course"—and he pointed toward the railroad which passed nearby, "I put you on the train for Paris."

She had not expected that. She was powerless and knew it. Wide-eyed she sought his face, but he met her look squarely.

"I mean it," he said evenly. "You shall do what I say."

Her gaze flared angrily and then fell.

"Oh!" she stammered. "You would dare!"

"Your remedy—is yonder," he said firmly, pointing to the Gare.

Some loiterers, a few children and a stray dog had gathered about them. The dog, a puppy, barked at Clarissa and was promptly kicked for its precocity. The crowd laughed. This relaxed the tension of the situation.

"Come," said Markham, his hand on the donkey's halter. "This will never do. We will go on, please."

Hermia stood her ground a moment defiantly, her arms akimbo and then dumbly followed.

Markham led the way toward the market-place, where the crowds were gathered. The glance he stole at Hermia revealed a set expression, a cheek highly flushed and a lambent eye.

"If you would prefer not to perform to-day I will get you a room at an inn," he said gently.

But she raised her chin and looked at him with the narrow eye of contempt.

"You will get me nothing," she replied.

"Nothing but food," he replied. "We are now going to eat."

If scorn could kill, Philidor must have died at once. But she followed him to the H™tel Dieu, and nibbled silently at what he had ordered. His efforts to relieve the tension were unavailing so he gave it up and at last led the way to the market-place where Clarissa was unpacked and Yvonne donned her orchestra.

Business was good, though Philidor did the lion's share of it. The sound of Yvonne's drum speedily drew a crowd and Philidor got out his sketching block and went to work on the nearest onlooker, a peasant girl of eighteen, in Norman headgear. She demurred at first, but she was pretty and knew it, and Philidor's tongue was persuasive, his nervous crayon eloquent. He was at his best here, and when the sketch was done he gave it to her with his compliments. The girl's lover, a gardener from an estate nearby, showed it jubilantly from group to group, and Philidor's fame was again established.

It could not in any truth be said that Yvonne's orchestra was a symphonic success, for she jangled her mandolin horribly out of tune, and blew her mouth-organ atrociously. But whatever her performance lacked in artistry it made up in noise, her drum and cymbals awaking such a din that existence was unbearable within ten feet of them. Philidor went on with his portraits and was so absorbed that for at least twenty minutes he neither saw nor heard what was going on about him. He had been aware of his companion's execrable performance a while ago, and now realized with a suddenness which surprised him that she played no more. He rose and peered about over the shoulders of his rustic admirers. Somebody directed his glance. There she was across the square, her orchestra dangling, talking to a gentleman. It was true; and plainly to be seen that the gentleman was Pierre de Folligny. Philidor watched them uncertainly. A joke passed, they both laughed and the Frenchman indicated his quivering machine hard by. Then it was that Philidor went forth across the square, his brow a thundercloud. The girl cast a glance over her shoulder in his direction and then followed the Frenchman to his machine. Philidor's long stride made the distance quickly, and before the pair were seated, he stood beside them.

"Where are you going, Yvonne?" he asked quietly.

"Who knows?" she laughed. "To Paris, perhaps."

"Mademoiselle has consented to ride with me," said De Folligny coolly. "I trust we do not interfere with your plans."

Philidor's eyes sought only hers.

"You insist?" he asked of her.

She laughed at him.

"Naturellement."

The car had begun to move.

"One moment, Monsieur—"

De Folligny only smiled, put on the power and in a moment was speeding down the cobbled street, leaving Philidor staring after them, his head full of wild thoughts of pursuit, the most conspicuous dolt in all Verneuil.

But he did not care. He thrust his bony fists deep in his pockets and slowly made his way though the piles of vegetables back to Clarissa. He bundled his materials into his knapsack and quickly disappeared from the interested gaze of the bystanders, who had not scrupled to offer him both questions and advice.

He was quite helpless with the alternatives of sitting at the H™tel Dieu to await developments or of hiring a car at the garage nearby and going on a wild-goose chase which, whether successful or unsuccessful, must end unprofitably. Hermia had paid him in strange coin. Could she afford it? He knew something of Pierre de Folligny. What did Hermia know? She was mad, of course. He had thought her mad before when she had volunteered with him for Vagabondia, but now— What could he think of her now? There was a difference.

Even his pipe failed to advise him. He knocked it out and wandered forth, his footsteps taking him down the street through which the pair had fled. He followed it to its end, emerging presently on a country road which took the line of the railroad to the South. He did not know where he was going, and did not much care so long as he was doing something. His stride lengthened, his jaw was set, his gaze riveted on the spot where his road entered the forest. It would have fared ill with De Folligny if they had met at that moment. Persons who met him on the road turned to look at him and passed on. Lunatics were scarce along the Avre.

After a while his fury passed and he brought what reason he still possessed to bear upon his topic. It was Hermia, not De Folligny who was to blame—Hermia, the mad, the irrepressible, whom he had roused from her idyl in their happy valley and driven forth, t�te baissŽe, upon this fool's errand—Hermia the tender, the tempestuous, the gentle, the precipitate, because of whose wild pranks he, John Markham, Dean of the College of Celibates, now stalked the highroads of France, the victim of his own philosophy.

Fool that he was! Thrice a fool for having stumbled to his fate, open-eyed. Last night she had laughed at him. To-day she mocked him still—with De Folligny.

His responsibilities oppressed him. He must find her and bring this mad pilgrimage to an end. To-morrow—to-night, perhaps he would put her on a train which would take her back to the people of her own kind. For he would go upon his way—his own way, which he was not sure could no longer be hers.

Emerging from the forest the road took a sharp turn away from the railroad tracks down hill and across a level plain. From the slight eminence upon which he stood, his road lay straight as a string before him, its length visible for almost a mile. Near its end he saw a dark object at the side of the road. A wagon? Or was it a motor? This was the way De Folligny had come, for there had been no turnings. He hurried on, his gaze on the distant object which grew nearer at every step. He was sure of one thing now, that the object had not moved—of two things—that it was not a motor. And yet there was something familiar about it. A wagon it was—a wagon with a roof, its end showing a window which caught the reflection of the sky—a house wagon, and near it, phantom-like against the dim foliage, a shaggy gray horse; to the right, the white smoke of a newly made fire rising among the trees. It was the roulotte of the Fabiani family and there in the woods was his friend of a night, Cleofonte, the incomparable.

He had almost made out the bulk of figures near the fire when from the hedge beside the road there came sounds of tinkling bells and a small wraith in red and blue rose like a Phoenix from the dust and confronted him with outstretched hands.

"You are late, Philidor. I've been waiting at least half an hour."

"You've been—what?"

"Waiting for you," coolly. "What kept you so long?"

He looked at her as though sure that one of them must have lost his sense.

"Where is De Folligny?" he growled.

"How should I know?"

He took her by the elbows and looked into her eyes.

"He has gone?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"N-nothing."

She met his eyes with a clear gaze—a whimsical smile twisting her lips.

"You know, Philidor," she said quietly, "I don't like to be kissed unless—unless—"

She stopped and slowly disengaged her elbows from his grasp, "Unless I want to be kissed."

He searched her face anxiously.

"He—he kissed you?" he snapped savagely.

"Almost—"

"Did he?"

"No." She smiled up at him. "You see," amusedly, "every time he put his arm around me the drum and cymbals played. It quite disconcerted him." But Philidor found no amusement in her recital.

"How do you happen to be here?"

His tone was still querulous. She looked at him calmly and after a pause she answered evenly.

We were driving slowly. I saw the routlotte and recognized it at once. So I switched off the magneto of his machine—I don't know what he thought—but he looked at me as though he believed I had gone suddenly mad, and, while he still wondered, I jumped."

"And then?"

Hermia laughed softly. "He swore at me. 'You little devil,' he cried, 'how did you happen to do that?' "'My elbow slipped,' said I, from the roadside. "'Your elbow! Ma foi, you have educated elbows!' "'That's true, I should not play the cymbals else.' "'Cymbals! Who taught you to run a machine?' "'The bon Dieu!' said I, and fled to the Signora."

She laughed gaily. "Oh, he didn't follow. I think he understood that there had been a mistake. He watched me a moment and then got out, cranked his car thoughtfully, and went on in a cloud of dust— And that—that's' all," she finished.

Markham looked down the road, his narrowed eyes slowly relaxing and a smile growing under his small mustache.

"O Hermia,—what a frolic you've had! I feared—" He paused.

"What?"

"Anything—everything. You had no right—"

She raised a warning finger.

"We'll speak of it no more, Philidor," she said quietly.

His anger flared and died; for her eyes were soft with friendship, gentleness and compassion, and her bent head begged forgiveness. She had been unreasonable and would make him unhappy no more. All those things he read. It was quite wonderful.

She led him through the bushes to the fire where the Signora and Stella made him welcome with their kindest smiles and the bambino cried lustily. Cleofonte and Luigi presently emerged from the forest where they had gone in search of wood and deposited their loads by the fireside. They all made merry as befitted good comrades of the road, once more reunited, and when Philidor suggested going back to Verneuil for the night the jovial strong man would not have it, nor would Yvonne. So Luigi was dispatched on the gray horse to the town for Clarissa and the pack, but not until Philidor had privily given him some instructions and a piece of money which opened his sleepy eyes a trifle wider and increased the dimension of his smile.

When he returned later with both animals laden with packages deep was the joy and great the astonishment of the caravaners. With an air of mystery Luigi proudly laid his packages out in a row beside the fire and Yvonne opened them one by one, disclosing a chicken, a ham, three loaves of bread, butter, two cheeses, some marmalade, a quart of milk, a pound of coffee, a pound of tea, a tin of crackers and two bottles of wine.

"Jesu mio!" said Cleofonte, his eyes starting from his head. "It is beyond belief."

"To-night you dine with me—with us," laughed Philidor with a glance at Yvonne. They all took a hand in preparing the meal, which was to be magnificent. Luigi built another fire for the chicken which was to be roasted on a spit, and the coffee pot was soon simmering.

Yvonne made toast, Philidor cut the ham, the Signora made vegetable soup, and Stella hurried back and forth from the wagon, bringing the slender supply of dishes and utensils.

When all was ready they sat and ate as though they had never eaten before and were never to eat again. The wine was passed and drunk by turns from two broken tumblers and two tin cups, the only vessels available for both the wine and coffee, and healths were merrily pledged. Cleofonte swore an undying friendship for Philidor. Were they not both great artists—of different mŽtiers, but each great in his own profession? The world should know it. He, Cleofonte, would proclaim it. And the Signora Fabiani—she and the Signora were already sisters. They must all travel together. There was enough food for an army to eat. It would last a week at the very least.

Philidor was content. And when the others had cleared away what remained of their feast and brought out the blankets, Yvonne sat for a long while by the fire with Philidor, who smoked and talked of many things. But the train to Paris no longer interested him.

CHAPTER XIX

MOUNTEBANKS

They reached Alen�on at the end of the third day. Soon after leaving Verneuil their road mounted a rocky country of robust wooded hills, cleft by gorges and defiles, the uplands of the Perche and Normandie, from the crests of which the pilgrims had a generous view of the whole of the Orne. On the first day the company had dined at St. Maurice and supped and slept near Tourouvre, in the heart of a primeval forest of oaks and pines. Philidor and Yvonne had followed close upon the steps of Tomasso the bear, keeping, so to speak, under the shadow of Cleofonte's protecting wing. There was a difference in their relations, indefinable yet quite obvious to them both, a reserve on Philidor's part, marked by consideration and deference; on Yvonne's a gentleness and amiability which showed him how companionable she could be. Indeed, her docility was nothing short of alarming, and Philidor was ever on his guard against a new outbreak which, he was sure, was to be expected at any moment. But she cajoled him no more. Perhaps she understood him better now. Who knows? He spoke no more of love, nor were the roses of P�re GuŽgou again mentioned.

At Mortagne, which they had reached upon the second day, Philidor and Yvonne had a first view of a public performance of the Fabiani family, for, the conditions being agreeable, Cleofonte had pitched their camp within the limits of the town, and a crowd, augmented by Yvonne and her orchestra, had made their visit profitable. Yvonne had slept that night at a small auberge, her bed and board paid for with money she had made, and Philidor, who complained of a lack of sitters, slept quite comfortably near Clarissa in a stable.

In the morning Yvonne had made some purchases in the town—and later they had caught up with their friends near La Mesle, along the Sarthe, down which their road descended by easy stages to their destination.

Alen�on was in holiday garb and the tricolor flaunted bravely from many poles, though the beginning of the f�te was not until to-morrow. The streets were gay with people, the market-place showed a number of booths, tents and canvas enclosures within which performances were already in progress. The Fabiani family was late in arriving, but a spot was found, between the sword-swallower and the Circassian lady, which suited Cleofonte's purpose. So the routlotte was backed into place and Cleofonte, his coat off, his brows beading, directed the erection of the canvas barrier within which the performances were to be given. For let it be understood the Fabianis were no common mountebanks for whom one passed a hat. There was to be a gate through which one only passed upon the payment of ten sous, and within were to be benches upon which one could sit in luxury while he beheld these marvels of the age. Philidor and Yvonne helped, too, getting out the canvas which had been rolled and fastened beneath the wagon, and the uprights which supported it. Not satisfied with the sign which was to be fastened over the entrance, Philidor sought out a paint shop and before dark painted two great posters three m�tres in height;—one of them depicting Cleofonte with bulging muscles (real pink muscles that one felt like pinching) in the act of breaking into bits with his bare hands a great iron chain; the other showing the child Stella being tossed in the air from Cleofonte to Luigi, her heels and head almost touching. By sunset the paintings were finished and fastened in place, and when Cleofonte lit the torches upon either side of the entrance gate, the folk who were passing stopped in wonder to gaze. There were to be no performances to-night, Cleofonte explained, the company was weary; but to-morrow—! He pause and the magnificence with which his huge fist tapped his deep chest were eloquence itself.

Their work done for the night, Philidor set off post haste in search of quarters for Yvonne; but the inns were full and it was too late to search elsewhere. So he bought a truss of straw and one of hay (for Clarissa and the shaggy phantom) and brought them to the roulotte upon his back. The night was mild, and so he made Yvonne's bed and his own within the enclosure, and amid a babel of sounds, above which the barrel organ of the carousel near by wheezed tremulously, they dropped upon the blankets, dead tired, and fell asleep at once.

The sun was not long in the heavens before the barrel organ, silenced at midnight, renewed its plaint and the business of the day began. After an early breakfast Cleofonte and Luigi retired to the dressing tent, emerging after a while in gorgeous costumes of pink fleshings and spangles, their hair well greased with pomatum, their mustachios elaborately curled. The Signora and Stella soon followed, their hair wreathed in tight braids around their heads. The bambino, neglected, was howling lustily, so Yvonne took him in her lap upon the straw and soothed him to slumber while the carpet was laid and the impediments of the athletes brought out and placed near by for the day's work.

More than anything else in the world, Yvonne longed for a bath, but she suppressed this desire as unworthy of a true vagabond and washed in a bucket of water which Philidor had brought from the pump, sharing at the last in the suppressed excitement which pervaded the arena. There was no doubt in the minds of any that the Troupe Fabiani was to be the great success of the occasion. The duties and destinies of all its members had already been explained and decided. A girl was hired to care for the bambino. Yvonne was to beat her drum and play her orchestra on the platform outside, and this would attract the people, already anxious to behold the wonders within, a foretaste of which would be given, when the crowd gathered, by Cleofonte, who would life a few heavy weights and introduce the Signora, the Child Wonder, and Tomasso, the bear. Philidor was to keep the gate and between the performances was to make portraits of those who desired them. Their organization was perfection. Cleofonte was at his best when in the executive capacity.

At nine o'clock Hermia mounted the platform (a piano box turned on its side) and began to thump the drum and cymbals. Her position was conspicuous and she began a little uncertainly, for it was one thing to choose one's audience among the simple folk of the countryside, another to face the kind of crowd which now gathered to gaze up at her—peasants, horse-fanciers, shop people, clerks on a holiday, with here and there a person of less humble station, but she bent to her work with a will, encouraged by the example of the Circassian lady next to her who was selling in brown bottles an elixir which was a cure for all things except love and the goiter. The sword-swallower next them was already busy, and the Homme Sauvage, a hirsute person, whose unprofessional mien was both kind and peaceable (as Yvonne had discovered unofficially last night), was roaring horribly, at two sous the head, in his enclosure near by.

The wooden horses of the man�ge, upon which some children and a few soldiers from the garrison were riding, were already whirling on their mad career.

While Yvonne played, Cleofonte and Philidor "barked." That is, they proclaimed in loud tones the prodigies that were to be disclosed and that the performance was about to begin; to the end that, in a little while, coppers and centime pieces jingled merrily in Philidor's coat pocket, the benches were filled and a crowd two deep stood behind. This augured well. Cleofonte beamed as he counted noses, and the performance began.

Yvonne played a lively air while Tomasso was put through his paces, walking with a stick and turning somersaults, and at the end Cleofonte put on a heavy coat to keep himself from being torn by the savage claws of the beast and wrestled for some minutes with Tomasso, making the act more realistic by straining from side to side and puffing violently while Tomasso clung on, his muzzle sniffing the air, to be finally dragged down upon his master and proclaimed the victor. The applause from this part of the program was allowed to die and a dignified pause ensued, after which the signora appeared in her famous juggling act, unmindful of the cries of the bambino from the roulotte in active rebellion against the substitute. During Stella's performance, which followed, the orchestra played jerkily and then stopped, for Yvonne had never yet succeeded in looking on at the child's contortions without a pang of the heart. But the act went smoothly enough, and the entertainment, which lasted nearly an hour, concluded with Cleofonte's exhibition of prowess and the stone-breaking episode of which he was so justly proud.

The receipts were four hundred sous—twenty francs—and there were to be six performances a day! Well might Cleofonte wring Philidor by the hand and pay him over the five francs which he and Hermia had earned! There were no portraits to do, so Philidor sat at the entrance with Yvonne until the time for the next performance. It was tiresome work and the breathing space was welcome enough. To Philidor his companion seemed already weary. But when he suggested that perhaps they had better take to the road again she shook her head.

"No, no. I've reached the soul of things—felt the pulse-beats of humanity. I delight with Cleofonte, suffer with Stella. I'm learning to live, that's all."

"I thought you looked a little tired," he said gently.

"I am tired—but not mind-tired, heart-tired, spirit-tired as I once was. My elbows ache and there's a raw place on my shoulder, but it's an honorable scar and I'll wear it. And I sleep, O Philidor, I never knew the luxury of sleep such as mine."

"I don't want you to be ill."

"I can do my share," she finished steadily, "if Stella can."

Toward three o'clock of the afternoon Yvonne mounted her piano box. The Fabiani family had been so well received that once it had been necessary for Philidor to draw the flap at the gate because there was no room in the enclosure for more people. As the time for the beginning of the fourth performance drew near, a crowd had again gathered, listening to the Femme Orchestre and moving in groups of two and three toward the entrance where Philidor in the intervals between announcements pocketed their coins and watched Yvonne. This last occupation was one in which of late he had taken great delight. Her costume, as Monsieur de Folligny had also discovered, became her admirably, the sun and wind had tanned her face and arms to a rich warmth, and this color made the blue of her eyes the more tender. The lines he had discovered in her face were absent now, for it was the business of a Femme Orchestre to smile.

Cleofonte had come out and was looking over the crowd with an appraising eye, adding his own voice to the din as Philidor paused for breath, when in the midst of a lively air the music stopped—stopped so suddenly that Philidor turned to see what the matter was. Yvonne gave one startled glance over the crowd, then jumped down behind the box and, unslinging her orchestra as she dropped, literally dove under the canvas flap and disappeared. Philidor, who was in the act of making change, called Cleofonte to take his place and went inside, to find that Yvonne had fled behind the wagon.

"What is it?" he asked, alarmed. "Are you ill?"

"No, no," breathlessly. "Olga! I saw her. She's out there."

It was Philidor's turn to be perturbed. "Olga Tcherny! You must be mistaken."

"I'm not. I wish I was. I saw her plainly—and the Renauds, Madeleine de Cahors and Chandler Cushing. O Philidor, they mustn't see me here!" She seized his arm and looked up into his eyes appealingly.

His brows drew downward and he glanced toward the entrance.

"They wouldn't come in here."

"They might—"

He glanced irresolutely about him and then opened the door of the roulotte and helped her up the steps.

"Stay there-and lock the door."

He paused a moment, his hand on the doorknob, looking over the head of the audience toward the entrance flap, where Cleofonte, oblivious of the tragedy which threatened the newer members of his family, still shouted hoarsely. Philidor stopped in the dressing tent and spoke a few words to the Signora, made his way across the arena, peering over Cleofonte's shoulder, and then, his course of action chosen, slipped quickly into his accustomed place outside.

"_Dix sous, Messieurs et Dames!" he shouted. "The greatest act of this or any age—the _Famille Fabiani_, the world renowned acrobats, jugglers and strong man! Six great acts of skill and strength, any one of which is worth the price of admission! _Entrez, Mesdames_, and see the fight between Signor Cleofonte, the strongest man in the world, and the savage bear captured from the forests of Siberia! A contest which thrills the blood—for in spite of the great strength of the Signor—which has been compared to that of Samson, who once fought and conquered, single handed, a lion (smiles of approval from Cleofonte at the eloquence of this comparison), in spite of the great strength of the Signor—I say—the danger of his destruction is ever present, as any one who has seen the contest can testify. Come one, come all, _Messieurs_, only once in a lifetime does one have a chance to see the Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder, Queen of the Mat and Queen of the Air, in her extraordinary acts of flight and contortion—"

During this harangue Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure which had slowly wedged through the crowd at one side and now stood beside him. He knew that it was Olga Tcherny, but he had not dared to look at her, though he was quite sure that her head was perched on one side in the birdlike pose she found effective, and that her eyes, mocking and mischievous, were searching him intently. But he went on extravagantly, searching his wits for Barnum-like adjectives.

"Entrez, Messieurs, and see the beautiful female Juggler of Naples, who tosses ten sharp knives and burning brands into the air at one and the same time, not lets one of them touch the ground—who tosses a cannon ball, an apple and a piece of paper—who spins two dishes on the end of a stick, with one hand, while she rolls a hoop with the other—a lady who has acted before all of the crowned heads of Europe. There will never again be such great artists, a performance unsurpassed and even unequaled in the history of the Oire."

Philidor's adjectives had given out—as had his breath—and so he paused. As he did so he heard Olga's voice beside him in a single but curiously expressive syllable.

"Well?" it asked.

His eyes met hers without other token of recognition than a slight twinkle of amusement.

"Mademoiselle wishes to enter? Ten sous, if you please." And then with a loud voice directed over her head, "Entrez, Messieurs et Dames, and see the hand to hand struggle between a man and a savage beast! A contest at once magnificent and appalling—one which you will remember to the end of your days, a spectacle to describe to your children and to your children's children—"



"John Markham!" Olga's voice sounded shrilly in English. "Stop howling at once and listen to me."

"Oui, Mademoiselle, ten sous, if you please. The performance is about to begin and—"

"This performance has been going on quite long enough. What on earth are you doing here in Alen�on?"

"Barking," said Markham with a grin. "Also doing crayon portraits at two francs fifty a head," and he pointed to the sign beside the poster of Cleofonte breaking the chains which advertised the nature of his talents in glowing terms. "My name is Philidor, Mademoiselle," bowing; "itinerant portrait painter—at your service."

"Oh, do stop that nonsense and explain—"

"There's nothing to explain. Here I am. That's all."

"How did you get here—to Alen�on?"

"Walked—it's my custom."

"Rom Rouen?"

He nodded. "I'm a member of the Troupe Fabiani of Strolling Acrobats," he laughed. "I'm learning the gentle art of bear-baiting. Won't you come in?"

She searched his face keenly and accepted his invitation, first handing him her fifty centime piece, which he dropped without comment into his pocket. The enclosure was already filled, so he closed the entrance flap and mounted guard over it—and Olga stood beside him, her glance passing swiftly from one object to another. Cleofonte's bout with Tomasso was more than usually dramatic, but her eyes roved toward the dressing tent, eyeing with an uncommon interest the Signora when she appeared.

"Your troupe is not large," Olga remarked when the program had been explained to her.

"No, we are few, my dear Olga, but quite select. You have yet to see Luigi perform and the Child Wonder—and the Femme Orchestre—a remarkable person who plays five instruments at the same time."

Olga watched the show for a while with an abstracted air.

"You surely can't mean that you enjoy this sort of thing?" she questioned at last.

He laughed. "I do mean just that—otherwise I shouldn't be here, should I?"

"Oh, you're impossible!" she said impatiently.

"I know it," she laughed with a shrug, "and the worst of it is that I'm quite shameless about it."

He was really an extraordinary person. She couldn't help wondering how it was that she could have cared for him at all, and yet she was quite sure that he had never seemed more interesting to her than at this moment. But it was quite evident that she did not believe him. The performance was soon over, the people crowded toward the entrance, Olga, alone at last, remaining. Indeed, she was making herself very much at home, and to Philidor's chagrin insisted upon examining the Signora's knives and torches, the heavy weights of Cleofonte, the chains and the larger fragments of the stone which Luigi had broken on Cleofonte's chest. It was all very interesting. Then she sat upon a bench, her glance still roving restlessly, lighting at last upon the house wagon.

"And that," she indicated, "is where you sleep?"

"Not I. That's for the women. I sleep out when I can—indoors when I must."

Still she gazed at it, and while Philidor, his inquietude rapidly growing, watched her keenly, she rose and walked slowly around the roulette, peering under it where the dogs lay chained, and up at its small windows and door as though fascinated by a new and interesting study of contemporary ethnology.

The active members of the Fabiani family had all retired to the dressing tent and were occupied in the preliminaries to supper. Philidor's mind was working rapidly, but, think as he would, nothing occurred to him which might effectually serve to stem the tide of his visitor's dangerous curiosity. She paused before the door, looking upward, and Philidor watched the window fearfully.

"It seems absurdly small for so many people. A baby, too, you said?" she asked coolly.

"Oh, yes, there are beds," he said; "two of them—quite comfortable, I believe."

"I'm awfully anxious to see what it's like inside. The Signora wouldn't mind, I'm sure—" She put one foot on the steps and reached up for the knob.

It was locked he knew, for there was a key on the inside, but the knowledge of that fact did nothing to decrease his alarm.

"Oh, I wouldn't bother," he muttered helplessly. "There's nothing—"

But before he could move she had stepped up and with a quick movement had flung the door wide open.

Philidor closed his eyes a second, praying for a miracle, then followed Olga's gaze within. The beds were there, the shelves of dishes, the racks of clothing, but of Hermia there was no sign. How the miracle had happened Philidor knew not, unless she had gone through the roof, but with the discovery his courage returned to him in a gush, and when Olga's eyes keenly sought his face he was calmly smoking. Just at this moment a sound was heard, of merry, rippling laughter, light and mocking, which had a familiar ring. Olga looked around quickly toward the spot behind her from which the sounds seemed to come, her gaze meeting nothing but the canvas wall. They heard the sounds again, this time faintly, as though receding in the distance overhead. It was most extraordinary. She glanced toward the dressing tent from which the Signora was just emerging.

"Would you like to visit the green room?" asked Philidor, amusedly directing the way. "We are happy family, as you will see."

"Who was laughing, John Markham?" asked his visitor.

His eyes were blanks.

"Laughing? I don't know. Everyone laughs here. Stella perhaps—or the Circassian lady?"

She shook her head, still eyeing him narrowly, but he only smoked composedly and, after looking into the tent, threw open the flaps with a generous gesture and invited her to enter. Cleofonte and Luigi were counting their money, but when the title of their visitor was announced, rose and bowed to the ground. It was seldom that the Fabiani family had been done so great an honor.

Olga returned his compliments with others quite as graceful upon the quality of the performance she had witnessed, but her eyes, as Philidor saw, were still roving carelessly but with nice observance of minuti¾, taking in every object in sight. Upon the ground in the corner where it had been thrown lay a drum and cymbals fastened to a framework of wire and straps.

Philidor grew unquiet.

"How curious!" she exclaimed, examining the contrivance.

"It is the music," put in the Signora pleasantly, "of our Femme Orchestre. She is ill. We were forced to leave her yesterday at La Mesle. To-morrow she will play again. The Contessa will hear her, perhaps?"

Philidor breathed gratefully. A firmer hand than his now controlled their destinies. Olga searched the Signora's face, which was as innocent as that of the bambino.

"Grazia, Signora," she returned politely; "perhaps I shall."

Philidor accompanied her to the gate, reassured and jocular.

"How long are you going to persist in this foolishness?" she asked at last irritably.

"Who knows?" he laughed. "I think I've struck my proper level. Did you see my posters?" he asked, pointing proudly. "Great, aren't they?"

"They're disgusting," said Olga.

He smiled good-humoredly. "That's too bad. I'm sorry. I thought you'd like 'em."

She only shrugged contemptuously.

"And this is your Valhalla?" she sniffed. "A kingdom of charlatans, and tinsel and clap-trap, of fricassees and onions, and greasy mendicants. Ugh! You're rather overdoing the simple life, Monsieur er—Philidor. You're very ragged and—ah—a trifle soiled."

"Outwardly only, ch�re Olga," he laughed. "Inwardly my soul is lily-white."

"I'm not so sure of that. No one's soul can be lily-white whose beard is two weeks old. Also, mon ami, you look half famished."

"My soul—" he began.

"Your stomach!" she broke in. "Come with me. At least I'm going to see you properly fed."

"You're awfully kind, but—"

"You refuse?"

"I must—besides, you could hardly expect me to appear at your house party in these."

She turned on her heel and walked away from him.

"I hardly expect you ever to do anything that I want you to do."

"But, Olga,—"

Without turning her head she disappeared in the crowd.

CHAPTER XX

THE EMPTY HOUSE

Markham stood for a moment watching the white plume of Olga Tcherny's huge straw hat until it nodded its way out of sight. Then he turned back just in time to note a disturbance of the canvas barrier, from under which, her slouch hat pushed down over her ears, her gray coat hiding her finery, Hermia breathlessly emerged.

"I've never had such a fright since I was born," she laughed nervously. "She won't come back?"

"I think not."

He helped her to her feet. "It's lucky you weren't in the roulotte."

"Not luck—forethought. I knew she'd never be content until she'd seen the inside of that wagon. She expected to find me there."

"You! She saw you—outside?"

"No—I'll take my oath on that—you see, I saw her first. But she expected to find me there just the same. I can't tell you why—a woman guesses these things. I watched her. She's a deep one." She laughed again. "I wouldn't have her find me here for anything in the world." She suddenly laid her hand on his arm. "Philidor! we must go on—at once."

"But you're tired—"

"I'd be in a worse plight if I were identified—by Olga."

He paused a moment, and then, pointing to the dressing tent, turned swiftly and went out, examining the street between the booths, and then, with a pretence of looking to the fastening of the uprights, carelessly made the round outside the barrier. An atmosphere of peace pervaded the encampment and an odor of cooking food. The crowd had scattered and of Olga, or Olga's party, he saw nothing.

A wail went up in the dressing tent when Hermia announced her decision. What should Cleofonte do without her? It was she who attracted the crowds—the eloquence of Monsieur Philidor which drew them within the arena. Never in their lives had the Fabiani family enjoyed such success. And now—that the Signor and Signora should go! It was unthinkable—unbelievable! Cleofonte could not permit it. But Yvonne was obdurate. There were reasons—the Signor would understand that—which made this decision inevitable. They must go—at once, as soon as the night had fallen.

The first shock over, Cleofonte clasped his hands over his knees and stared gloomily at the tent flap. If the Signora could have stopped in Alen�on but two days more. He, Cleofonte, would have paid ten francs a performance—anything to keep them there. Signora Fabiani moved silently about her tasks, but her eyes were deep with wisdom. What she was thinking, Philidor knew not, nor did Yvonne set the matter straight. It was necessary to go—that was all. It was very sad and made Yvonne unhappy, but she had, unfortunately, no choice in the matter. When it was clearly to be seen that the decision was unalterable, Cleofonte jingled his bag of coppers and sighed, Luigi scowled at vacancy and Stella unreservedly wept.

"We could have made two thousand francs," muttered Cleofonte.

"More than that," said Luigi the silent, "three thousand."

"There will be no longer pleasure in the dŽcarcasse when the music ceases to play," sobbed Stella.

Yvonne put her arms around the child and kissed her gently.

"We shall meet again—soon, cara mia."

"I know—in Heaven," cried Stella, refusing to be comforted.

"We shall find you again, child, never fear," said Yvonne.

Stella's eyes brightened. "Then you will return?"

Yvonne patted her cheek softly.

"Have I not said I will see you again, carissima?" she finished.

After supper Philidor went forth and bought supplies which were packed securely upon Clarissa, together with Philidor's knapsack and other personal belongings. Hermia changed her gay apparel for a shirtwaist and dark skirt, and when dusk fell, after a reconnaissance by Luigi, the back of the canvas barrier was raised and the trio quietly departed and were swallowed up in the shadows of a back street.

The weather so far still favored them, but the night was murky and high overhead the clouds were flying fast. Their road, and they chose the first one which led them forth of the town, wound up between a row of hedges and pollard trees to an eminence form which, when they paused for breath, they had a view of the lights of the town. The man�ge whirled and the barrel organ still wheezed its thin thread of sound across the still air. The Homme Sauvage was roaring again and the deep voice of Cleofonte, their late partner and companion, was heard at intervals in his familiar plaint. There was a fascination in the lights and in the medley of noises—each of which had come to possess an interest and a personality—for behind them were the pale road and the inhospitable darkness.

"It seems a pity to leave them," said Hermia, thinking of Stella, "when we were doing so well. I shall regret the roulotte."

John Markham smiled.

"It's time we were moving, then," he said. "Your true vagabond wants no roots—even in a roulotte—nor regrets anything."

"I can't forgive Olga for this. I consider her most intrusive, impertinent—"

Markham had laid warning fingers upon her arm. A moment ago on the hill below them a man's figure had been in silhouette against the lights. At the sound of their voices it had suddenly disappeared. They stood in silence for a moment, watching, but the figure did not reappear.

"That was curious. I was mistaken, perhaps," said Markham. "Come, we must go on."

They turned their backs resolutely to the light and in a moment had passed over the brow of the hill and were alone under the wan light of the darkening heavens. They had not traveled by night before and the obscurity closed in upon them shrouded in mystery. But as they emerged from beneath the trees their eyes became accustomed to the darkness and they followed the road cheerfully enough, determined to put as many kilometers as possible between themselves and the threatening white plume of Olga Tcherny which seemed in the last few hours to have achieved an appalling significance. At first Markham had been disposed to laugh at Hermia's fears. What reason in the world could Olga have had to suspect Hermia's share in his innocent pilgrimage? Of his own tastes she had of course been ready to believe anything, and he had had ample proof that she thoroughly disapproved of his present mode of living. Nor was that a matter which could affect a great deal their personal relations, which were already strained to the point of tolerance. But as to his companion—that was another affair. He had never understood the intuitions of women and thought them more often shrewd guesswork in which they were as likely to be wrong as right. But the more he considered what Hermia had said to him, the more definite became the impression that Olga Tcherny had fallen upon some clew to Hermia's whereabouts—that she had expected to find her—as Hermia had said—in Cleofonte's house-wagon. He knew something of Olga and had a wholesome respect for her intelligence. If it was to her interest to prove Hermia his companion on this mad pilgrimage, it was clearly to Hermia's interest to prove her own non-existence. As Hermia had suggested, her intrusiveness was impertinent, and Markham mentally added the adjectives "ruthless" and "indecent." He had been almost ready to add "vengeful," but could not really admit, even to himself, that she had anything to be vengeful about.

Whatever Hermia's further thoughts upon the subject, for the present she kept them to herself. They walked along as rapidly as Clarissa's gait would allow, for the tiny beast, never precipitate at the best of times, found the darkness little to her liking and pattered along with evident reluctance, mindful of the truss of hay only half eaten which she had left under Cleofonte's hospitable lights.

At a turn in the road Markham determined to verify his suspicions of a while ago, and accordingly drew Clarissa among some bushes, and, stick in hand, awaited the approach of the shadow which he was sure still hung upon their trail. Distant objects were dimly discernible, and Markham had almost decided that he had been mistaken when the crackling of a twig at no great distance advised him that in the shadow of the hedge someone was approaching. He remained quiet until a man slowly emerged from the shadows, when he stepped quickly out of his hiding place and confronted him.

Markham's six feet were menacing, and his pursuer stopped in his tracks, eyeing Markham's stick, undecided as to whether it were the best policy to face the thing out or take to his heels. As Markham's legs were longer than his, he chose the former and made a brave enough show of indifference, though his tongue wagged uncertainly.

"B-bon soir, Monsieur," he stammered. "Il fait beau—"

But Markham was in no mood to pass compliments upon the weather.

"What are you following me for?" he growled.

"Follow you, Monsieur? I do not comprehend," said the man.

"I'll aid your understanding, then. You followed us up the hill out of Alen�on. I saw you. Well, here I am. What do you want?"

"The road of the Oire are free," he answered sullenly, gaining courage.

"Perhaps they are. But no man with honest business slinks along the hedges. You go your way, do you hear?"

"The road of France are free," the man muttered again.

Markham quickly struck a match, and, before the man could turn away, had looked into his face. He wore the cap and blouse of a chauffeur and his legs were encased in the black puttees of his craft. Olga's ambassador was unworthy of her.

"Well, you go back to those who sent you here and say with the compliments of Monsieur Philidor that the roads of the Perche are dangerous after dark. I've every right to break your head, and if I meet you again I'll do it. Comprenez?"

The man eyed Markham's stick dubiously again and then, with a glance toward the pair in the bushes, silently walked away. They watched him until he was lost in the shadows of the trees.

"You see," said Markham, "I was right. But I can't understand it. Why should Olga—?"

Hermia was laughing softly.

"Don't tell me you're as stupid as that."

He took Clarissa by the halter and led the way into the road again. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly.

"I mean, mon ami, that you have aroused in Olga's breast a dangerous emotion. She decided some time ago to marry you. Didn't you know that? It's quite true. She told me so."

"Told you?"

"Not in words. Oh, no. Olga never tells anything important to anyone. But she told me so just the same. I know."

"Nonsense. She's a coquette. I've always understood that, but to marry—!"

"Precisely that—nothing else. She's madly in love with you, my poor friend. She has never failed to bring a man to her feet when she made up her mind to. The deduction is obvious."

There was no need of daylight to see the expression on her companion's face. Hermia could read it in the dark.

"What you say is highly unimportant," he said with attempt at a smile. "And because she desires to make me—er—her husband she employs persons to follow me along the byways of France?"

"Oh, no. Not to follow you, my friend. Me. You are merely the bone of contention. I am the impudent terrier who has interfered with the peace of her repast."

"Impossible. She doesn't even know you're out of Paris. How can she know?"

"Now you're delving into the intricacies of the feminine mind—an occupation to which you're as little suited as Clarissa—and she's a woman. You must take my word for it. Olga has often amazed me by the accuracy of her intuitions. I have imagined that where her own interests were involved they would be nothing short of miraculous. She is quite as sure that I am your companion moment as though she had seen me in the Signor Cleofonte's roulotte."

"Then if she is so sure," he asked with excellent logic, "why should she make so much bother about it?"

Hermia laughed. "The mere fact that she is making a bother about it is significance in itself. She'll find me if she can and confront me with the damning fact of your presence in my society."

"And precious little good that would do her," he put in rather brutally.

"Or me," said Hermia gravely. "Hell hath no hatred—et cetera. You've spurned her, Philidor,—in spirit, if not in letter. Get her the chance and she will pillory me in the market-place."

Markham went along in silence, his earlier impressions confirmed by argument, sure that the chance of discovery must be avoided at all hazards. A watch of the road had revealed no sign of the stealthy chauffeur, but that argued nothing. He was an obstinate little animal, evidently quite capable, since his discomfiture, of following the adventure through to its end. They must outmaneuver him. Presently Markham discovered what he had been looking for—a path hardly perceptible in the darkness, which led through the bushes and promised immunity. They followed it silently, pausing for a while to listen for sounds of pursuit, and at last, with minds relieved, if not quite certain, plodded on into the obscurity. They had entered, it seemed, an aisle of a forest which stretched, darkly impenetrable, on either side. Before them, blackness, darkness within dark, like a cave, a smell of dampness like a dungeon. The sky lightened for a moment and they saw the shape of leaves and tree fronds far above them like a pattern on a carpet—a pattern which changed with elflike witchery, for a wind had blown up and sounded about them with the roar of a distant sea, rising now and then in a mighty crescendo, like the boom of a nearer wave upon the shore. The tree tops swayed and joined in the splendid diapason. Nature breathed deeply.

Markham led the way, his hand upon Clarissa's bridle, peering along their slender trail, while Hermia, all her senses keenly alive to the witchery of the night, followed closely, casting timorous glances over her shoulder into the murky gloom, in which she fancied she could discern the shapes of pursuers. Once thinking she had heard a sound behind her, she caught Markham's arm and they stopped, breathless, and listened, but they heard nothing in the rushing blackness but the complaint of an owl and the crash of a dead limb at a distance to their right. A drop of rain fell on Markham's hand. Their prospect was not pleasant. Markham struck a match under his coat and looked at his watch. It was one o'clock. They had been walking for four hours. He tried to focus his eyes upon the blackness. This path must lead somewhere—a shed even would serve them if it rained harder. The brief glimpse he had of Hermia's face showed it pale and dark-eyed with a look he had never discovered in it before, not of fear, for fear he had begun to believe was foreign to her. The light had cut them off for a moment from the rest of the world, or rather had made more definite the little world of their own, but Hermia's eyes still peered over her shoulder, distended and alert. She was on the defensive, ready for headlong flight, like a naiad startled.

"I'm sorry, Hermia. You're dead tired—aren't you?"

"Yes, I—I am—a little," she said quietly.

"We've traveled almost far enough. We must have come a mile at least into this forest. It seems limitless."

He peered about, taking a few steps forward along the path, which widened here. The trees, too, were further apart, and a larger patch of the windy sky was visible. Hermia followed, guiding the donkey. They emerged into a glade, their road not well defined, and made out against the trees beyond a rectangular bulk of gray. Markham went forward more briskly, his spirits rising. Providence was kind to them. A house! A house in France, he had discovered, meant hospitality. To-night, at least, it meant a shelter from the rain which now pattered crisply upon the dry leaves of a forgotten autumn. A small affair it was, a keeper's or a forester's lodge of one story only, with a small shed or stable at the side. There were no lights, but that was reasonable enough. French country folk made no pretence of entertaining visitors at such early hours of the morning. As they approached the building the matter of its occupancy seemed open to question, for the closed windows stared blankly at the leaden sky. An eloquent shutter hung helplessly from its hinges and weeds ranged riotously about the front door, near which a wooden bench lay overturned. While Hermia waited under a tree Markham walked slowly around the house, returning presently with the information that its rear confirmed the impression of desertion. But to make the matter certain he walked to the door and vigorously clanged the knocker. Hollow echoes, but no other sound. He knocked again; to his surprise the door yielded to the touch of his shoulder and creakily opened.

"We'll go in, I think," he laughed. And, leaving the patient donkey for the moment to her fate, he led the way indoors. A match illumined for a moment the hallway, showing a ladder-like stair to a trap door above, and then, sputtering faintly in the musty air, went out. Since matches were scarce, he deftly made a torch of a paper from his pocket with better success. A brief glance into the room at their left showed signs of recent occupancy. His quick survey marked an oil lamp in the corner, which, upon investigation, proved to be in working order, so he lit it with the end of his expiring taper.

The room was handsomely paneled in white. There was a couch in the corner, a rug upon the floor and several easy chairs were drawn sociably toward the chimney breast; along one wall was a gun-rack and in the center of the room a table with a litter of magazines, a box of cigars, a decanter of wine and some glasses.

Their appraisal concluded, they faced each other blankly. Then Markham laughed.

"I wonder what's the punishment for poaching in France," he said gaily.

Hermia dropped wearily upon the couch.

"I'm sure I don't know—or care in the least," she sighed. "I'll go to prison willingly in the morning if they'll only let me sleep now. I'm tired. I didn't know I could ever be so tired."

Markham glanced at her and then quickly poured out a glass of wine, brought it to her, and in spite of her protests made her drink.

"Stolen," she muttered between sips.

"It's no less useful because of that," he said, coolly helping himself. "It's medicine—for both of us. We've had eighteen hours to-day. Salut, Yvonne! We'll pay for it some day."

"To whom?"

"To the chap who owns this lodge—a man of taste, a good Samaritan and a gentleman, if a mere vagabond may be a judge of Amontillado." He finished the glass at a gulp and set it upon the table. From her couch she watched him as he opened the windows and closed and fastened the shutters. Then he went outside and she heard him pottering around in the rain with Clarissa, undoing the pack and bringing it into the house, and leading the donkey off in the direction of the shed.

"An excellent man, our host," he laughed from the doorway. "Clarissa is up to her ears in hay."

He dripped with moisture, and, mindful of the furniture, took off his coat and hat and shook them in the hall.

"Now, child, we're snug. It's raining hard. No one would venture here in such a night. You must sleep—at once."

"What will you do?" she asked drowsily.

"I'm perishing for a smoke. You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, no,—but you must—must sleep—too. I'm—very tired—very—" The words trailed off into mumbling, and before he could fill his pipe she was breathing deeply.

He got up and laid her coat over her feet and then stood beside her, his soul in his eyes, watching.

"Poor little madcap," he whispered; "mad little—sad little madcap."

He bent over her tenderly, with a longing to smooth away the tired lines at her eyes with caresses, to take her in his arms and soothe her with gentleness. She seemed very small, very slender, too small, too childish to have raised such a tempest in the deeper currents of his spirit, and he groped forward, his fingers trembling for the touch of her.

He straightened with a sigh. He could not and he knew it; for she trusted him and trust in him was her defence, a valiant one even against his tenderness. It had always been one of the hardest burdens he had to bear. He watched her a while longer, then turned away and sank into a chair by the table, soberly lit his pipe and smoked, his eyes roving. There were colored prints upon the wall, well chosen ones of deer and fox hunters in full chase; upon the table an ash tray of Satsuma ware and several books. He took up the one nearest him, a volume on big game hunting, and turned the pages idly. Their unconscious and unwilling host took his sports seriously, it seemed. He dropped the book upon his knees, and as he did so it fell open at the fly leaf, upon which in a feminine scrawl a name was inscribed. He read it with surprise and concern. "Madeleine de Cahors!" Olga Tcherny's Norman friend—who lived—

Alen�on! What a dolt he was! This was the forest of ƒcouves—or a part of it—and in the night he had come into the preserve of the wealthy marquis. Olga's friends—and Olga! A fine escape he had made of it, into the very sphere of the Countess Tcherny's activities! The Ch‰teau must be near here, at the most not more than a few kilometers distant. He was a clod-pate, nothing less. For with all the Oire to choose from he had stumbled blindly into the one path that led to danger. What was to be done? He got to his feet stealthily and went through the lodge. A dining room, kitchen and pantry upon the other side of the hallway, deserted, but like the living room, giving signs of recent use. He opened the door and looked out. The shadows of the forest were barely discernible through the driving rain. It was a boisterous night, its inclemency heightened when viewed from the shelter of this friendly roof, one which must defy their sleuth, the chauffeur, had he had the temerity or the stealth to follow them through the forest. Markham watched for a while, nevertheless, and then, satisfied that for the night at least they were safe from discovery, returned to the living room and dropped into his chair, determining to sit and listen a while and then perhaps take a few hours of sleep.

There was nothing else to be done. His companion was beyond moving, unless he carried her, and this he knew in his present condition could not be far. To-morrow morning they must be abroad early and make their way at top speed out of the forest, trusting to luck that had so far favored them to bring them out of harm's way. It was curious, though, the way Olga had persisted in his thoughts. Marry? Him? Incredible! Had she not taken the pains so long ago to make him understand that marriage was the last thing in the world she would ever think of again? Their agreement on the fundamentals of independence had been one of their strongest ties. That kiss in Hermia's rose garden meant nothing to Olga—or to him. An accident—physical only—the possibility of which their former agreements had unfortunately not foreseen. Hermia was mistaken—that was all. And yet—why this pursuit? It all seemed a little too deep for his comprehension at the present moment. His mind groped for lucidity, failed, and then was blank.

CHAPTER XXI

NEMESIS

The storm had blown itself out in the night and the sun came blithely up, awaking the forest to its orisons. The oaks dripped jewels and the black pines lifted their gilded spires above the clearing and nodded solemnly to the rosy East. The sun climbed higher and a thin pall of vapor roamed up the hillside from the gorges of the stream and sought the open sky.

Nature had wept out the gusts of her passion and her smiles were the more beautiful through the vestiges of her tears. The sunlight was spattered lavishly among the shadows, glowing with a lambent light in the hidden places under shrub and thicket and dancing madly on leaf and bough. There was mischief in the air and it took but a little flight of the fancy to conjure Pan and his nymphs gamboling about the sleeping house of the vagabonds.

Morning had importuned their shutters long before Markham awoke and gazed with startled eyes at the diagonal bar of orange light which cut the obscurity of their hiding place. Then, rubbing his eyes, he stumbled to his feet and stared at his watch. It was nine o'clock. Hermia still slept, huddled under her overcoat, one rosy cheek pillowed on her open palm, her tumbled hair flooding riotously about her shoulders. Markham stopped a moment to gaze at her again, but she stirred under his look, so he moved quickly away to the door and peered cautiously out, searching the forest with eager eyes. Gaining courage, he went out, making the round of the house with eyes and ears intent. There was much ado among the tree tops and a scurrying of four-footed among the underbrush, but of two-footed things he saw nothing. He fetched a pail of water for Clarissa and was in the act of entering the house when a gun cracked sharply at some distance on his left. The forest stopped to listen with him for a full moment as the echoes went bounding among the rocks. And then a whirring of wings great and small, hither and yon, announced that there were other vagabonds as startled as he. Two more shots, this time in the distance behind him, followed quickly by a startling noise close at hand.

Clarissa, her whole soul in the note, was incontinently braying.

It was an unearthly sound and an unfamiliar one. For never in the smooth course of their acquaintance had she been guilty of such an indiscretion. He hurried to the shed, but before he reached the door she ceased, and when he entered, regarded him with a wistful eye of recrimination which forestalled his reproaches. After all, she was only an ass! The damage, if damage there was, had already been done. In grave doubt as to his own immediate course, he hurried to the lodge, where he found Hermia sitting wide-eyed upon her couch, fearfully awaiting him.

"What on earth has happened, Philidor?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing," he laughed. "Our host is abroad with a shotgun. Clarissa objects, and is so much of an ass that she can't hold her tongue about it."

She smiled and got to her feet.

"I must have slept—"

"Precisely seven hours. It's half-past nine. We must be off at once—by the back door if there is one—"

"Are they coming this way?"

"I didn't stop to inquire. They're near enough, at any rate."

"We could explain, couldn't we—I mean about the storm and the door being open?"

"Hardly—this shooting lodge, my child,—this forest, too, is the property of the De Cahors. See—" and he showed her the book.

"O Philidor! What shall we do?"

"Get out at once. They mustn't see you at any cost. If they come you must take to the bushes, and meet me in Hauterire. It's a case of the devil take the hindmost—the hindmost being me and the devil being—" he paused significantly.

"Olga! Do you think she can be shooting, too?"

He shrugged. "She's quite apt to be doing precisely that," he said shortly.

Hermia flew to the window and, unlatching the shutter, peered timidly forth. Markham heard her gasp and looked over her shoulder through the aperture.

"Olga!" she whispered in dismay.

There in the path to the deep wood, smartly attired in gaiters, a short skirt and Alpine hat, her shotgun in the hollow of her arm, was Nemesis. She came up the path at a leisurely gait, and stopped not a hundred feet away, her head held upon one side, smiling and carelessly surveying the premises.

Hermia shrank back and huddled down upon the couch.

"O Philidor, we're lost—"

But he caught her by the shoulder and hurried her out into the hall.

"Up the ladder quickly! It's our only chance. There's a window in the gable and a trellis. I saw it a while ago. You must go—that way when I get her inside. We'll meet at Hauterire. Leave the rest to me."

And while she went up he returned to the living room, removed the most obvious traces of Hermia's presence, and, as the trap door was slid down into its place, dropped into the nearest armchair, feigning slumber. He heard Olga's footsteps as she prowled around the house and deluded himself for a moment with the thought that she had gone on, when suddenly he saw her poking at the shutters, which she finally pressed open with the butt end of her shotgun, filling the room with sunlight and revealing the prostrate Markham, who started up in dismay which needed little simulation.

"Good morning, Philidor," said she quite pleasantly.

"Olga!"

"Did you sleep well? What a sluggard you are! Behold the ant—learn her ways and do likewise."

He rose, and through the window offered her his hand. But she waved him off with the point of her gun.

"Not so fast, my young friend!" she cried, her eyes meanwhile swiftly searching the room. "You're a poacher. Will you surrender?"

"By all means—at discretion—if you'll please not keep pointing that plaguey thing—"

She raised a tiny silver object suspended around her neck by a silver chain.

"Don't you know that it's my duty to my host to whistle for the keepers to come and take you before the magistrate?"

"Of course. Whistle away."

"But I'm not going to—at least, not yet. I want to talk to you first. I'm coming in—with your permission."

"Charmed!" he said with a gaiety he was far from feeling, and opened the door with a fine flourish. "It's always easy to be hospitable at somebody else's expense," he said.

She entered without ceremony, gun in hand, her eyes, under lowered lids, shifting indolently, yet missing nothing—the pack on the floor, the tumbled couch, and Markham's familiar pipe.

"Quite handsome, I'd say. The Count always had an eye for the picturesque."

She made the round of the lower floor, carelessly observant of its arrangement, while Markham followed her, his ears straining for the sounds of Hermia's escape.

"Are your friends coming here?" he asked.

Olga poked the muzzle of her gun into a cupboard. "Not unless I whistle for them, Monsieur," she said slowly. "They're below me to the left. We have rendezvous at the lower lodge. Lucky, isn't it?"

Markham's eye lit hopefully.

"I am, it seems, completely at your mercy," he laughed.

He preceded her into the living room and in doing so failed to note the brief pause she made beside the stairs to the loft, upon the steps of which, and upon the floor beneath them, plainly to be seen were a number of small particles of mud, broken and dried. Nor did he see the quick smile of triumph replace the puzzled look with which she had pursued her investigations. She followed him in and with a sigh of content dropped into a chair by the fireplace, crossing her knees and leisurely lighting a cigarette.

"Enfin," she laughed. "Here we are gain—thou and I, Monsieur le philospophe."

He shrugged.

"At your pleasure," he replied.

She examined his face a moment before she went on. And then softly:

"Why did you run away from me last night? You did, you know, Philidor, or you wouldn't be here."

He hesitated a moment.

"I was afraid you'd insist—on my joining your house party."

She cast a glance around the room and laughed.

"It seems that you've already done so."

"Er—a mistake. I was going to camp in the woods, but it came on to rain. The door of this house was unlatched. So I walked in—and here I am."

"Reasonable enough. It did rain. I remember. And weren't you lonely here?"

"Oh, no," he said easily, "I was asleep."

"And I woke you. What a pity!"

"I'm sure—I'm delighted—if you don't lead me to the Ch‰teau de Cahors or the magistrate."

"What alternatives! One would think, John Markham, that you were really an enemy of society."

"Society with the small S, I am. I'm never less alone than when by myself."

"Which means that two is a crowd? Thanks. I shall tear myself away in a moment, but not until—"

"Don't be foolish, Olga," he whispered. "You know that can't mean you."

"I don't know," she murmured wistfully in a low, even voice, her gaze on the andirons. "You've surely given me no reasons t believe that you cared for my society. I wrote you twice from New York, once form Paris and once from Trouville, and you've only deigned me one reply—such a reply—with comments upon the weather (upon which I was fully informed), and a hope that we might meet in October in New York. It was sweet of you, John, when I came to Europe expressly to see you!"

"Me?" He rose, walked the length of the room and glanced anxiously out of the window. "Impossible!" he said, then turned and stood by the mantel, his back toward the door, his voice tensely subdued. "See here, Olga, don't you think it's about time that you stopped making fun of me—that you and I understood each other? For some reason, after a few years of acquaintance you've suddenly discovered that I amuse you. Why, I don't know. I'm not your sort—not the sort of man you'd find worth your while in the long run, and you know it. And I don't propose to be caught in your silken mesh, my dear, to be left to dry in the sun when you find some other specimen more to your liking."

Olga laughed silently, her head away from him, and Markham, after a quick glance over his shoulder, went on whispering.

"I gave you my friendship-freely, unreservedly, but you weren't satisfied with that. Hardly! You wanted me to be in love with you. There's no doubt of it." He laughed. "Oh, anyone else would have done as well, but I happened along at a favorable time—on the back swing of the pendulum. It hurt your pride, I think, that one of my Arcadian simplicity should fail to droop where others, more sophisticated, had fallen swiftly. Perhaps I, too, might have fallen if you hadn't warned me that you had no heart. You did me that kindness."

He stopped, listening. Olga's ears, too, were alert for a sound—a tiny sound of no more volume than that which might have been made by a mouse that had come from overhead.

"But you grew weary of that," he went on quietly. "You wanted something to happen. Your reputation was at stake. It was time for a psychological crisis of sorts—and so you arranged it—in a rose garden."

Olga had stopped smiling now and her brows were narrowing painfully. "You have no right to speak to me so," she murmured.

"It's true," he finished. "You didn't play fair and you know it."

She bent forward, her elbows on her knees, her gaze on the ashes.

"You hurt me—John," she whispered, scarcely audibly; "you hurt me—terribly."

His eyes searched her keenly. Her head drooped to her fingers, which pressed her temples nervously. If he had not known her so well he would have almost been ready to believe her contrition genuine. But in a moment she straightened.

"You advise me not to hope, then?" she murmured with a laugh.

Doubt fled. She was mocking him. Her very presence mocked him. The rafters saw his discomfiture, though the attic heard not. Was Hermia gone? He fidgeted his feet, listening. Olga was really intolerable.

"Oh, what's the use?" he muttered. "The humor's out of the thing." A change, subtle and undefined, came over his visitor's expression. She rose imperturbably and walked about, fingering things, reaching at last the book case next to the corridor, and slowly abstracted a volume, turning its leaves idly, and facing the door, spoke with perilous distinctness.

"It is charming here, mon ami," she said gaily. "If I had sent for you, things could not have been more agreeably arranged. It is so long since we've met. And I've missed you dreadfully. It mustn't happen again, mon cher." She lowered the book and leaned against the door jamb dreamily. "You shall remain here en vagabond," she went on, "and I will visit you, bringing you crumbs from the rich men's table, which we will enjoy ˆ deux. It will remind us of those days at Compi�gne, those long days of sunshine and delight—of the moonlit Oise, and the tiny auberge at La Croix among the beeches, which even the motorists hadn't yet discovered. But even La Croix is not more secluded than this. This lodge is seldom used. No one shall know—not even Madeleine de Cahors."

Markham listened dumbly at first in incomprehension and then in amazement. He had never been in Compi�gne with Olga or anyone else. And La Croix—! What was she about? Her purpose came to him slowly, and with the revelation, anger.

He covered the distance between them in a step.

"Silence," he whispered, aware of the trap door about their very ears.

She smiled up into his face sweetly.

"I suppose you'll be denying next that you were ever in Compi�gne—"

"I do."

"Or that you would have married me last summer if I—"

"Olga!"

"If I hadn't been wise enough—"

"You're mad!"

She drew back form him, her eyes wide, but she had no reply. He took one step toward her and then stopped, impotent before her frailness, his glance wavering toward the door into the loft which mutely stared at him. Hermia would have gone by now—she must have gone. The way had been clear for twenty minutes. He looked away, and then, since there seemed nothing else to do, he laughed. But Olga didn't seem to hear him. She was fingering the shotgun which lay beside her on the table.

"Mad? Perhaps I am," she said with slow distinctness. "Though you're the last one in the world who should tell me so."

She picked up the weapon and, before he had really guessed what she was about, calmly discharged one of its barrels out of the window.

The noise was deafening and the silence which followed freighted with importance. A scraping of feet overhead, a rattle of loose hinges, and a frightened face at the aperture. Olga Tcherny turned, took a step or two into the doorway, glanced upward and then let her astonished gaze fall on Markham, who was peering up, imploring mutely.

"You—and Hermia!" This from Olga, who had recovered her speech with difficulty. "What does it mean, John?"

But John Markham thrust his hands deep into his pockets and turned his back.

"What does it mean?" she repeated distinctly. "You and Hermia—here? I hardly understand—" But Markham, looking out of the end window, shrugged his shoulders, refusing to reply. He was fuddled with misery, bewildered by the turn of events which were quite beyond his management.

Another long pause, during which he was conscious that Hermia, her dignity in jeopardy, was descending the ladder and now faced their visitor, a fugitive smile upon her lips, pale but quite composed.

"Hello, Olga," he heard her say.

The Countess Tcherny's gaze traveled over her from head to heel, the gaze of one who looks at a person one has never seen before. She looked long but replied not; then her chin was lowered quickly the fraction of an inch, after which she raised the gun, broke it and threw out the shell from the still smoking barrel.

"Stupid of me, wasn't it?" she said coolly. "I forgot it was loaded."

"It's lucky you didn't hurt yourself," said Hermia.

"Isn't it? How dreadful, Hermia, if I had peppered the trap door!"

"I rather think you did," said Hermia. She walked across to the fireplace with a queer laugh. "Well! You've brought down the game. Now whistle for your dogs!"

Olga's face was quite serious.

"I'm sure that I don't in the least know what you're talking about. Your presence is surprising enough—"

Hermia looked defiance.

"Is it? Why? You've outwitted me. I'm simply acknowledging the fact. John Markham and I have been traveling together for a week—as you perceive—en vagabond. We like it. It's most amusing. Indiscreet? Perhaps. If so, I'll take the consequences. Can I say more?"

Olga's smile came slowly—with difficulty. The bravado of fear? Or of indifference? She had never really measured weapons with Hermia.

"I'm the last person in the world whose censure you need fear, my dear," she said suavely.

"I don't fear it," said Hermia promptly. "I'm quite sure I'd rather have had you fin me out than any one I know."

Bravado again.

"I'm glad, darling," Olga purred. "It's sweet of you to say so."

"I don't mean that I wanted to be discovered. If I had I shouldn't have fled from the roulotte of the Fabiani family yesterday when you were looking for me. You traced us from Alen�on, of course—"

"I? Why should I follow you?"

"I haven't the slightest idea—unless your conversation a moment ago with John Markham explains it."

"You heard—that!"

"Oh, yes,—didn't you want me to? I'm not deaf. But you needn't be at all worried about it." She paused and brushed the dust of the loft from her coat sleeve. "You know, Olga, I don't believe it—any of it."

Olga smiled sagely, but Markham, who all this while had been standing like a figure of wax, now showed signs of animation.

"It was all a joke, of course, Hermia," he began, moving forward. "Olga knows as well as I do that—"

But Hermia had waved him into silence.

"Let me finish," she insisted, and he paused.

"I fancy the atmosphere needs clearing," she went on coolly, "and we may as well do it at once. As I remarked a few moments ago, I deny nothing, crave no indulgences, from you, Olga, or from anyone. I cry peccavi. But I want you to understand that I feel no regret. Even at the cost of this dŽnouement I should not hesitate to seek my freedom—if I could find it with John Markham. I love him. And he—do let me finish, Philidor,—he loves me. So there you are. There's nothing more to be said. What could one say?"

Olga had reached the door, shrugging her shoulders very prettily.

"Nothing, perhaps, except 'good day,'" she laughed. "It seems that I'm de trop. I'll go at once."

AT the door she paused. "You will be quite secure from interruption here to-day, I think. When you go, take to the forest to the northward and you should get out in safety. This secret is delicious. When you are well out of harm's way, mess amiss, I shall tell it, in my best manner, at the dinner table."