I then made the mistake of drawing too near the scene in order to witness its denouement, and this made a change. The wren saw me and flew away, and its enemy gliding off into the grass left the trace of its passage there in zigzags. Already the ridiculous and exaggerated anguish which had frozen me was dissipated. I took myself severely to task. “I must be half blind! It is merely an example of maternal love--nothing else. The heroic little bird is merely defending its nest. One does not realize the love of mothers. What a fool I have been!” “Hallo! Hallo!” My uncle was hailing me. I retraced my steps, but this incident haunted my mind. In spite of my assurance that there was nothing extraordinary in it, I did not speak about it to Lerne. The Professor looked cheerful. He wore the smiling expression of a man who had just taken a great resolution, and is much pleased at it. He was standing before the principal door of the _château_, the letter in his hand, and looking at the boot-scraper with interest. My presence not having interrupted his fit of absent-mindedness, I thought it would be enlightening to look at the scraper, too. It was a sharp blade, mortized into the wall, and generous use by many soles had curved it into the shape of a sickle. I presume that Lerne, in his meditation, was looking at that knife without seeing it. Indeed, he seemed suddenly to wake up. “Here, Nicolas, here is the letter! Pardon the trouble I am giving you.” “Oh, uncle, I am used to it! Chauffeurs are messengers despite themselves. Presuming on the pleasure which rolling along without any aim is supposed to give them, many a lady asks them to roll along for something, and to cart away many lots of very urgent and heavy parcels. Our sport is taxed that way.” “Ah, ha!” says uncle, “you are a good fellow. Off with you, the night is falling!” I took the sad letter which was to announce Donovan’s madness to his parents in Scotland--the blessed letter which was going to send Emma’s lover from her. _George Macbeth Esq._, _12, Trafalgar Street_, _Glasgow_, (_Ecosse_). The writing of the address gave me food for thought. Only a few vestiges of the former flowing script made it resemble Lerne’s handwriting, but most of the letters and the general appearance, denoted a “graphic spirit” the exact opposite of that of long ago. Graphology is never at fault. Its decrees are infallible. The writer of this address had changed altogether. In his youth, my uncle had given proof of every virtue. What vices were now not his, and how he must hate me, he who had loved me so much! CHAPTER IX THE AMBUSH The father of Macbeth came to fetch him without delay, accompanied by his other son. Since Lerne had written to him, nothing new had taken place at Fonval. The mystery went on, and more arrangements were made against my person.