Thurot's face assured me that I was as welcome there as ever I had been. He chid Clancarty for his badinage, and told me he was certain all along that the first place I should make for after my flight from Bicêtre (of which all the world knew) would be Dunkerque. “And a good thing too, M. Greig,” said he. “Not so good,” says I, “but what I must meet on your stair the very man-” “Stop!” he cried, and put his finger on his lip. “In these parts we know only a certain M. Albany, who is, my faith! a good friend of your own if you only knew it.” “I scarcely see how that can be,” said I. “If any man has a cause to dislike me it is his Roy--” “M. Albany,” corrected Thurot. “It is M. Albany, for whom, it seems, I was the decoy in a business that makes me sick to think on. I would expect no more than that he had gone out there to send the officers upon my heels, and for me to be sitting here may be simple suicide.” Clancarty laughed. “Tis the way of youth,” said he, “to attach far too much importance to itself. Take our word for it, M. Greig, all France is not scurrying round looking for the nephew of Andrew Greig. Faith, and I wonder at you, my dear Thurot, that has an Occasion here--a veritable Occasion--and never so much as says bottle. Stap me if I have a friend come to me from a dungeon without wishing him joy in a glass of burgundy!” The burgundy was forthcoming, and his lordship made the most of it, while Captain Thurot was at pains to assure me that my position was by no means so bad as I considered it. In truth, he said, the police had their own reasons for congratulating themselves on my going out of their way. They knew very well, as M. Albany did, that I had been the catspaw of the priest, who was himself no better than that same, and for that reason as likely to escape further molestation as I was myself. Thurot spoke with authority, and hinted that he had the word of M. Albany himself for what he said. I scarcely knew which pleased me best--that I should be free myself or that the priest should have a certain security in his concealment. I told them of Buhot, and how oddly he had shown his complacence to his escaped prisoner in the tavern of the Duke of Burgundy's Head. At that they laughed. “Buhot!” cried his lordship. “My faith! Ned must have been tickled to see his escaped prisoner in such a cosy _cachette_ as the Duke's Head, where he and I, and Andy Greig--ay! and this same priest--tossed many a glass, _Ciel!_ the affair runs like a play. All it wants to make this the most delightful of farces is that you should have Father Hamilton outside the door to come in at a whistle. Art sure the fat old man is not in your waistcoat pocket? Anyhow, here's his good health....” === MISSING PAGES (274-288) === CHAPTER XXXI. THE BARD OF LOVE WHO WROTE WITH OLD MATERIALS CHAPTER XXXII. THE DUEL IN THE AUBERGE GARDEN