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e made a pretence of eating and entertained Martin with uninteresting and (to him) unintelligible criticism of Parisian actors. Bigourdin passed a moment or two of professional commonplace at the table and retired. A

n inexperienced young woman of the town, with the chambermaid’s assistance, replaced the vi


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llain of last night’s tragedy. Corinna continued her hectic conversation and took


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little account of Martin’s casual remarks. A mind even less subtle than her compan


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ion’s would have assigned some nervous disturbance as a reason for such fever



ish behaviour. But of what nature the disturbance? Vaguely he associated it with the Sundayfied raiment. Could it be that she intended, without drum or trumpet, to fly from Brant?me? “By the way, Martin,” she said suddenly, when the last wizened grape had been eaten, “have you ever taken those snapshots of the Chateau at Bourdeilles?” “I’m afraid I haven’t,” said he. “You promised to get them for me.” “I’ll go over with my camera one of these days,” said Martin. “That means aux Kalendes Grecques. Why not this beautiful afternoon?” “If you’ll come with me.”

“I’ve rather a headache—or I would,” said Corinna. “As it is, I think I’ll have to lie down. But you go. It would do you good.” “Aha!” thought Martin astutely, “she wants to get rid of me, so that she can escape by the afternoon train to Paris.” Aloud he said, “I’ll go to-morrow.” “Why not to-day?” “I don’t feel like it,” said he. Not for the first time she struck an obstinate seam in Martin. He turned a deaf ear both

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