"I took the best of care of Pitchouné. I thought I did, but I could not make him happy. He mourned terribly. He refused to eat, and one day I was so careless as to open the door for him and we have never seen him since. As far as I know he has not been found. Your man, Brunet, comes sometimes to see my maid, and he thinks he has been hurt and died in the woods." Sabron glanced over to the mat where Pitchouné, stretched on his side, his forelegs wide, was breathing tranquilly in the heat. "We have heard rumors of a little dog who was seen running along the highway, miles from Tarascon, but of course that could not have been Pitchouné." Sabron nodded. "It was, however, _mon brave_," he said to the terrier. "Not but what I think his little heart was brave enough and valiant enough to have followed you, but no dog could go so far without a better scent." Sabron said: "It is one of the regrets of my life that you can not tell us about it. How did you get the scent? How did you follow me?" Pitchouné did not stir, and Sabron's eyes returned to the page. "I do not think you will ever forgive us. You left us a trust and we did not guard it." He put the letter down a moment, brushed some of the flies away from the candle and made the wick brighter. Mustapha came in, black as ebony, his woolly head bare. He stood as stiff as a ramrod and as black. In his child-like French he said: "Monsieur le Lieutenant asks if Monsieur le Capitaine will come to play a game of _carté_ in the mess tent?" "No," said Sabron, without turning. "Not to-night." He went on with his letter: "... a sacred trust." Half aloud he murmured: "I left a very sacred trust at the Château d'Esclignac, Mademoiselle; but as no one knew anything about it there will be no question of guarding it, I dare say." "... So I write you this letter to tell you about darling Pitchouné. I had grown to love him though he did not like me. I miss him terribly.... My aunt asks me to say that she hopes you had a fine crossing and that you will send us a tiger skin; but I am sure there are no tigers near Algiers. _I_ say..." And Sabron did not know how long Miss Redmond's pen had hesitated in writing the closing lines: "... I say I hope you will be successful and that although nothing can take the place of Pitchouné, you will find some one to make the desert less solitary. "Sincerely yours, "JULIA REDMOND." When Sabron had read the letter several times he kissed it fervently and put it in his pocket next his heart. "That," he said to Pitchouné, making the dog an unusual confidence, "that will keep me less lonely. At the same time it makes me more so. This is a paradox, _mon vieux_, which you can not understand." CHAPTER XII THE NEWS FROM AFRICA