“That is why I offer to tell you this story now. That is my reason for bringing you to Farlingford now,” said Colville, quietly. It seemed that he must have awaited, as the wise do in this world, the propitious moment, and should it never come they are content to forego their purpose. He gave a light laugh and stretched out his long legs, contemplating his strapped trousers and neat boots with the eye of a connoisseur. “And should I be the humble means of doing a good turn to France and others, will France--and others--remember it, I wonder. Perhaps I hold in my hands the Hope of France, Marquis.” He paused, and lapsed for a moment into thought. It was eight o'clock, and the long northern twilight was fading into darkness now. The bell of Captain Clubbe's ship rang out the hour--a new sound in the stillness of this forgotten town. “The Last Hope,” added Dormer Colville, with a queer laugh. CHAPTER V. ON THE DYKE Neither had spoken again when their thoughts were turned aside from that story which Colville, instead of telling, had been called upon to hear. For the man whose story it presumably was passed across the green ere the sound of the ship's bell had died away. He had changed his clothes, or else it would have appeared that he was returning to his ship. He walked with his head thrown up, with long lithe steps, with a gait and carriage so unlike the heavy tread of men wearing sea-boots all their working days, that none would have believed him to be born and bred in Farlingford. For it is not only in books that history is written, but in the turn of a head, in the sound of a voice, in the vague and dreamy thoughts half formulated by the human mind 'twixt sleeping and waking. Monsieur de Gemosac paused, with his cigarette held poised halfway to his lips, and watched the man go past, while Dormer Colville, leaning back against the wall, scanned him sideways between lowered lids. It would seem that Barebone must have an appointment. He walked without looking about him, like one who is late. He rather avoided than sought the greeting of a friend from the open cottage-doors as he passed on. On reaching the quay he turned quickly to the left, following the path that led toward the dyke at the riverside. “He is no sailor at heart,” commented Colville. “He never even glanced at his ship.” “And yet it was he who steered the ship in that dangerous river.” “He may be skilful in anything he undertakes,” suggested Colville, in explanation. “It is Captain Clubbe who will tell us that. For Captain Clubbe has known him since his birth, and was the friend of his father.”