Therese and a young Parisienne, her friend, were at luncheon with us. They bade us adieu and went away for a gallop as we took cigars. We had no sooner left the dining room than I called for my horse. Due at the Harbor that evening, I could give myself no longer to the fine hospitality of the count. In a few moments I was bounding over the road, now cool in deep forest shadows. A little way on I overtook Therese and the Parisienne. The former called to me as I passed. I drew rein, coming back and stopping beside her. The other went on at a walk. "M'sieur le Capitaine, have you any news of them--of Louise and Louison?" she inquired. "You and my father were so busy talking I could not ask you before." "I know this only: they are in captivity somewhere, I cannot tell where." "You look worried, M'sieur le Capitaine; you have not the happy face, the merry look, any longer. In June you were a boy, in August--voila! it is a man! Perhaps you are preparing for the ministry." She assumed a solemn look, glancing up at me as if in mockery of my sober face. She was a slim, fine brunette, who, as I knew, had long been a confidante of Louison. "Alas! ma'm'selle, I am worried. I have no longer any peace." "Do you miss them?" she inquired, a knowing look in her handsome eyes. "Do not think me impertinent." "More than I miss my mother," I said. "I have a letter," said she, smiling. "I do not know--I thought I should show it to you, but--but not to-day." "Is it from them?" "It is from Louison--from Tiptoes." "And--and it speaks of me?" "Ah, m'sieur," said she, arching her brows, "it has indeed much to say of you." "And--and may I not see it?" I asked eagerly. "Ma'm'selle, I tell you I--I must see it." "Why?" She stirred the mane of her horse with a red riding-whip. "Why not?" I inquired, my heart beating fast. "If I knew--if I were justified--you know I am her friend. I know all her secrets." "Will you not be my friend also?" I interrupted. "A friend of Louison, he is mine," said she. "Ah, ma'm'selle, then I confess to you--it is because I love her." "I knew it; I am no fool," was her answer. "But I had to hear it from you. It is a remarkable thing to do, but they are in such peril. I think you ought to know." She took the letter from her bosom, passing it to my hand. A faint odor of violets came with it. It read:--