His hair was grisled, his broad, square shoulders were bowed, his carriage mean. None would have known the shrunken shambling figure for that of the mighty steeple-jack. His countenance, however, was unmistakable. This was ravaged, too, but the old faint smile still hung about those merciless lips, and the old insolent scorn still smouldered in the big black eyes. Lacaze pulled his hat over his face and stood waiting till such travellers as had also alighted should have left the platform. A horn brayed, and the train began to move. “Good-bye!” cried a voice. “Good-bye! If you see René Dudoy, ask him if he remembers Fernand Didier, and say I was sorry I had no time to visit him. Good-bye!” The train gathered speed and rumbled out of the station. Lacaze moved towards the gates thoughtfully. Half an hour later he darkened the creamery’s hatch. René looked up from his work. He was making a basket. “Enter, monsieur,” he said. “And sit down, please. My wife will be back in a moment, and then she will serve you.” Slowly Lacaze came in, looking down on the ground. “You are married, then?” he said quietly. The other stared. “Yes,” he said, “monsieur. Why not?” “No reason at all,” said Lacaze, smiling. “And how is your wife?” René returned to his work. “She is very well, thank you.” “I am glad of that,” said Lacaze. “Very glad.” René Dudoy looked up. “Monsieur’s interest is unusually kind. Would it be indiscreet to ask why?” Lacaze gave a short laugh. “I know her,” he said. “She was a friend of mine. But I thought that she married Lacaze—Lacaze, the steeple-jack.” “She did,” said Dudoy. “But he was killed in the War. And, after, she married me. But, monsieur, tell me your name. If you are a friend of hers, you must have been mine also.” “I was,” said Lacaze softly, his chin on his chest. “I knew you well.” The other set down his basket and rose to his feet. “We were both at her wedding. You sent her roses, I think. And I sent her—violets.” “Not violets,” said René. “You must have sent something else. You forget. Lacaze sent her violets.” In a flash Lacaze had stepped forward and pulled off his hat. “Your servant,” he breathed, smiling. Dudoy wrinkled his brow. “I cannot think who you are,” he said. “Do tell me your name.” The other’s smile faded into a stare. “There are times, you know, when one misses one’s sight terribly.” Lacaze started. “When Madeleine’s here, I can see. We share her beautiful eyes.” He threw back his curly head. “Then, if you offered me sight, I would not take it. My blindness is a bond between us which those who have eyes of their own can never know. But—when she leaves me, then sometimes the old darkness returns—that awful darkness which, when she came to me, Madeleine did away . . . And now, I pray you, monsieur, tell me your name.” Lacaze turned his head and stared into the sunlit street. Then— “I am Fernand Didier,” he said. “And—and I must go, or I shall miss my train.”