During the three weeks which Loo Barebone had spent very pleasantly at the Villa Cordouan, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had provided music and light refreshment for her friends on several occasions. And each evening the drawing-room, which was not a small one, had been filled to overflowing. Friends brought their friends and introduced them to the hostess, who in turn presented them to Barebone. Some came from a distance, driving from Saintes or La Rochelle or Pons. Others had taken houses for the bathing-season at Royan itself. “He never makes a mistake,” said the hostess to Dormer Colville, behind her fan, a hundred times, following with her shrewd eyes the gay and easy movements of Loo, who seemed to be taught by some instinct to suit his manner to his interlocutor. To-night there was more music and less conversation. “Play him to sleep,” Dormer Colville had said to his cousin. And at length Turner succumbed to the soft effect of a sonata. He even snored in the shade of a palm, and the gaiety of the proceedings in no way suffered. It was only Colville who seemed uneasy and always urged any who were talking earnestly to keep out of earshot of the sleeping Englishman. Once or twice he took Barebone by the arm and led him to the other end of the room, for he was always the centre of the liveliest group and led the laughter there. “Oh! but he is charming, my dear,” more than one guest whispered to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, as they took their departure. “He will do--he will do,” the men said with a new light of hope in their grave faces. Nearly all had gone when John Turner at length woke up. Indeed, Colville threw a book upon the floor to disturb his placid sleep. “I will come round to-morrow,” he said, bidding his hostess good night. “I have some papers for you to sign since you are determined to sell your rentes and leave the money idle at your bank.” “Yes. I am quite determined,” she answered, gaily, for she was before her time inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of degenerate speech as cock-sure. And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himself at the Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting alone in the veranda. “Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices. They have gone away,” she mentioned, casually, in the course of conversation. “Suddenly?” “Oh no,” she answered, carelessly, and wrote her name in a clear firm hand on the document before her. And John Turner looked dense. CHAPTER XIX. IN THE BREACH The Marquis de Gemosac was sitting at the open window of the little drawing-room in the only habitable part of the chateau. From his position he looked across the courtyard toward the garden where stiff cypress-trees stood sentry among the mignonette and the roses, now in the full glory of their autumn bloom.