But Toinon, while deploring the mistakes of her mistress, was unaware that she had herself been guilty of an error. It had been an act of gross imprudence to threaten the abbé with Boulot as she had done when she met him on the landing. It set the abbé thinking of Boulot, whose existence he had well-nigh forgotten. Though there had been a tiff or an estrangement, the gamekeeper and the abigail were lovers. They had been, and possibly still were, betrothed. It struck the abbé as not at all improbable that Mademoiselle Toinon had written to him anent the cake fiasco, and that her lover might inopportunely arrive to look after her safety. It was most obliging of the young woman to have vouchsafed a hint suggestive of such a contingency, and he would be guilty of gross ingratitude if he failed to act on it forthwith. Hence, when in pursuance of her fancy she moved across the yard to the archway, where of old a portcullis used to hang, she was surprised to perceive that the ponderous entrance gates were closed, and that the key had been removed from the lock. The concierge was leaning against the stonework smoking pensively, his hands plunged deep into his breeches pockets. "What does this mean?" cried the abigail, with an imperious frown which served to mask a new-born terror. "It means that the gates are locked, and will remain so," was the composed answer. "But I want to go out--I have a mission from madame to one of the cottagers hard by." "So sorry," returned the concierge, smiling roguishly. "Mademoiselle must remain within--a pretty little bird within a cage. Nay, I but obey my orders. If mademoiselle will deign to discuss the point, yonder is the porter's room. We shall be quite alone and undisturbed, and I will make myself agreeable to mademoiselle." There was a studied insolence about the man's manner--he had been engaged quite recently--which made Toinon tremble. The fowler's net was closing in; she already fluttered in the toils, but would attempt another struggle to make assurance sure. "This castle is the property of the Marquise de Gange," she said, haughtily, "and the lacqueys who dwell therein eat her bread. I have warned you that I am sent by her. Open that door immediately." The man puffed slowly at his pipe and gave a long reflective whistle that spoke volumes. "Bread? Ah yes," he observed, abstractedly. "The bread is excellent, but it is not hers. Such, at least, are my instructions." "Impudent brute!" cried Toinon, stamping her foot. "I will report you instantly to our mistress, and you will be dismissed at once. A pretty pass, indeed! when I, her confidential maid, am to stand by and hear her insulted." "What is all this about?" demanded a big base voice behind, at sound of which the man put away his pipe and assumed an obsequious attitude.