The fish had gone the way of all flesh, and the bird had gone the way of the fish, and the first glass of Léoville was awaiting translation to the sky of human reveries, when there was a sound of carriage-wheels upon the gravel. May started. The glass of claret crashed untasted to the floor, and its owner sprang upon his feet and fled precipitately. Just as the door-bell rang, he escaped from the garden door of the hall and plunged into a maze of shrubbery; with a hurried sign to the silent servant as he passed. Rapidly and circuitously, he circled back behind the hedges until a successful flank movement brought him to the main driveway at the point where he remembered Mrs. Eastman had disappeared; here, by a bold dash he secured the front lawn; and a few cautious steps brought him to the side-door of the large, low stone pavilion aforementioned. Drawing a brass key from his pocket, he managed to turn a grating lock and entered. The door closed behind him and was carefully bolted on the inside. The interior was quite dark; but May cautiously felt his way to one of the front windows, and opening the sash, turned the slats of the blind to a horizontal position. Through this he peered, breathless with his run. At the front door of the house was the same carryall that had brought him from the station; but its occupants were not visible. May saw the St. Bernard dog silently threading his way through the bushes, his nose upon the trail; a minute later, and he scratched upon the door of the pavilion. “Hush,” hissed May, angrily. The dog scratched, softly. With an impatient imprecation, May opened it; the dog had a bit of paper in his mouth. May snatched it eagerly. “_Madame d’Arrebocques_” was written upon it, in the hand of Schmidt, his valet. “_Elle doit attendre._” Madame d’Arrebocques? May knew no such person. Madame d’Arrebocques? Why should she write? Why had she not sent her card? Had Schmidt spelled the name right? Ah! at last he had it, thanks to Mrs. Eastman’s garrulity. This could be no other than Cynthia Tarbox, the ill-married sister of Miranda, his châtelaine. And ill-mannered fortune! they had missed each other on the way. Mrs. Eastman might return at any moment. As he pondered, the carryall moved slowly off; but as it passed the window, he noted that it contained no other figure than the station-master. The woman, then, was left behind. May tore out a card and wrote upon it, in German, _Sie muss fort!_ and handed it to Fides, the dog, who trotted silently off. What means Schmidt used, May never knew; but some ten minutes later, four children came screaming down the avenue, running and gasping for breath, followed by a thin and wiry woman, robed in a flapping whitey-brown duster, whose haste and streaming bonnet-ribbons bore every evidence of extreme mental perturbation.