"Your--wife!" Larpent started in sharp surprise. "Your wife, did you say?" Saltash broke into a chuckle and dropped his hand from his captain's shoulder. "Yes, just that," he said. "You are behind the times, my friend. Are you going to congratulate me? We were married four days ago." Larpent's hand came out to him abruptly. "It's the best thing you've ever done, my lord," he said. "And you will never regret it." "What makes you say that?" said Saltash curiously. Their hands gripped and fell apart. Larpent answered him in the brief fashion of the man whose words are few. "Mainly because you loved her enough to marry her when you could have had her without." Saltash's laugh had the old derisive ring but there was no corresponding gleam of mockery in his eyes as he turned carelessly aside. "What is this thing called love?" he said. CHAPTER VII THE REFUGEE It was by no means characteristic of Jake to linger on a quest which had already proved fruitless but he was a man who possessed acquaintances in almost all parts of the world, and Paris was no exception. For the rest of the day after leaving Saltash he was philosophically occupied in seeking out old friends. Eventually he dined at a restaurant and betook himself to the station to catch the night train to Calais. It was all one to Jake whether he travelled by night or by day, so wholly accustomed was he to adapt himself to circumstances. Maud was wont to say with a smile that the luxuries of decent living were utterly thrown away upon him. He was a man who scarcely noticed physical discomfort. He could sleep under practically any conditions.