They had stood all the morning looking out of the window disconsolately, had smoked pipes and cigarettes innumerable, and had yawned a good deal, and sworn a little. "What the deuce are we to do to prevent ourselves from dying of _ennui_, Philip?" the one asked the other. "Jerry," the other answered solemnly, "I know no more than you do. There is nothing left to read, and soon--very soon, alas!--there will be nothing left to smoke but the _caporal_ obtainable in the village. That, however, might poison us and end our miseries." Then the one called Philip began looking about the salon that was at their disposal, and whistling plaintively, and peering into the cupboards, of which there were two: "Hullo!" he suddenly exclaimed, "here is another great mental treat for us--a lot of old books; and precious big ones, too! I wonder what they are?" "Pull them out and let us see. Probably only _Le Monde Illustré_, or _Le Journal Amusant_, bound up for the landlord's winter nights' delectation, after they have been thumbed by every sailor in the village." "Oh, confound the books!" Philip exclaimed when he had looked into them, "they are only the old registers, the _Livres des Étrangers_ of bygone years." "Nevertheless, let us see them," the other answered; "at any rate we shall learn what kind of company the house has kept." So, obeying his behest, Philip brought them out, and they sat down "to begin at the beginning," as they said laughingly; and each took a volume and commenced to peruse it. Every now and then they told one another of some name they had come across, the owner of which was known to them by hearsay, and they agreed that the "Hôtel Bellevue" had, in its day, had some very good people for its guests. They had found several titles--English--inscribed in the pages of the register, and also many prominent names belonging to the same nationality. "Probably half these people have occupied this very sitting-room at some time or the other," Philip said to Gervase. "I only wish to heaven some of them were here now, and that----" He stopped at a sudden exclamation of his friend, who was gazing fixedly at the page before him. "What kind of a find is it now, Jerry?" he asked. "Any one very wonderful?" "It must be a mistake," the other said in a low voice. "And yet how could such a mistake happen? Look at this!" and he pointed with his finger to a line in the book. "By Jove!" the other exclaimed, as he read, "_Août_ 17, 1854, _L'Hon. Gervase Occleve et sa femme_." Then he said, "Your father of course, before he inherited his title?" "Of course! There never was any other Gervase Occleve in existence, except myself, while he was alive. But what can it mean?" "It means that your father knew this place many years ago, and came here: that is all, I should say. It is a coincidence, but after all it is no more strange that he should know Le Vocq, than that you should."