To analyse my impression of Mr. Percy’s glances, I cannot conscientiously record that I found favour in his eyes.  For one thing, I fear he may not have recalled to his bosom a clarion sentiment (which doubtless he had ofttimes cheered from his native gallery in softer years):  the honourable declaration that many an honest heart beats beneath a poor man’s coat.  As for his own attire, he was even as the lilies of Quesnay; that is to say, I beheld upon him the same formation of tie that I had seen there, the same sensuous beauty of the state waistcoat, though I think that his buttons were, if anything, somewhat spicier than those which had awed me at the chateau.  And when we simultaneously reached the fragrant hour of coffee, the cigarette case that glittered in his hand was one for which some lady-friend of his (I knew intuitively) must have given her All—­and then been left in debt.

Amedee had served us both; Glouglou, as aforetime, attending the silent “Grande Suite,” where the curtains were once more tightly drawn.  Monsieur Rameau dined with his client in her own salon, evidently; at least, Victorine, the femme de chambre, passed to and from the kitchen in that direction, bearing laden trays.  When Mr. Percy’s cigarette had been lighted, hesitation marked the manner of our maitre d’hotel; plainly he wavered, but finally old custom prevailed; abandoning the cigarette, he chose the cigar, and, hastily clearing my fashionable opponent’s table, approached the pavilion with his most conversational face.

I greeted him indifferently, but with hidden pleasure, for my soul (if Keredec is right and I have one) lay sorrowing.  I needed relief, and whatever else Amedee was, he was always that.  I spoke first: 

“Amedee, how long a walk is it from Quesnay to Pere Baudry’s?”

“Monsieur, about three-quarters of an hour for a good walker, one might say.”

“A long way for Jean Ferret to go for a cup of cider,” I remarked musingly.

“Eh?  But why should he?” asked Amedee blankly.

“Why indeed?  Surely even a Norman gardener lives for more than cider!  You usually meet him there about noon, I believe?”

Methought he had the grace to blush, though there is an everlasting doubt in my mind that it may have been the colour of the candle-shade producing that illusion.  It was a strange thing to see, at all events, and, taking it for a physiological fact at the time, I let my willing eyes linger upon it as long as it (or its appearance) was upon him.

“You were a little earlier than usual to-day,” I continued finally, full of the marvel.

“Monsieur?” He was wholly blank again.

“Weren’t you there about eleven?  Didn’t you go about two hours after Mr. Ward and his friends left here?”

He scratched his head.  “I believe I had an errand in that direction.  Eh?  Yes, I remember.  Truly, I think it so happened.”

“And you found Jean Ferret there?”