short breadth to a door in the opposite wall.  The door yielded to a push; all was dark inside.  I listened for a sleeper’s breathing, but heard nothing.  I returned, took up the lantern, and carried it with me into the inner room.  I held it above my head, and it enabled me to see the low pallet-bed in the corner.  But Jean was not lying in the bed—­nay, it was clear that he had not lain on the bed all that night.  Yet his bedtime was half-past eight or nine, and it was now hard on one o’clock.  Jean was “making a night of it,” that seemed very clear.  But what was the business or pleasure that engaged him?  I admit that I was extremely annoyed.  My darling scheme, on which I had prided myself so much, was tripped up by the trifling accident of Jean’s absence.

What in the world, I asked again, kept the old man from his bed?  It suddenly struck me that he might, by the duke’s orders, have accompanied Mme. Delhasse back to Avranches, in order to be able to report to his master any news that came to light there.  He might well have been the second man on the box.  This reflection removed my surprise at his absence, but not my vexation.  I did not know what to do!  Should I wait?  But he might not be back till morning.  Wearily, in high disgust, I recognized that the great scheme had, for tonight at least, gone awry, and that I must tramp back to Avranches, carrying my old man of the sea, the Cardinal’s Necklace.  For Jean could not read, and it was useless to leave the parcel with written directions.

I went into the outer room, and set the lantern in its place; I took a pull at my flask, and smoked a pipe.  Then, with a last sigh of vexation, I grasped my stick in my hand, rose to my feet, and moved toward the door.

Ah!  Hark!  There was a footstep outside.

“Thank Heaven, here comes the old fool!” I murmured.

The step came on, and, as it came, I listened to it; and as I listened to it, the sudden satisfaction that had filled me as suddenly died away; for, if that were the step of old Jean, may I see no difference between the footfalls of an elephant and of a ballet-dancer!  And then, before I had time to form any plan, or to do anything save stand staring in the middle of the floor, the latch was lifted again, the door opened, and in walked—­the Duke of Saint-Maclou!

CHAPTER XII.

As a Man Possessed.

The dim light served no further than to show that a man was there.

“Well, Jean, what news?” asked the duke, drawing the door close behind him.

“I am not Jean,” said I.

“Then who the devil are you, and what are you doing here?” He advanced and held up the lantern.  “Why, what are you hanging about for?” he exclaimed the next moment, with a start of surprise.

“And I am not George Sampson either,” said I composedly.  I had no mind to play any more tricks.  As I must meet him, it should be in my own character.