He replaced the first in his pocket unread; the second he opened. It was written in French. “There are difficulties,” it said. “Can you come to me? Cross from Cherbourg to Southampton--train from thence to this place, and ask for Signor Bruno, an Italian refugee, living at the house of Mrs. Potter, a _ci-devant_ laundress.” The Citizen Morot rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the back of his hand, making a sharp, grating sound. “That old man,” he said, “is getting past his work. He is losing nerve; and nerve is a thing that we cannot afford to lose.” Then he turned to the letter again. “Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly; “St. Mary Western. He is there--how very strange. What a singular coincidence!” He fell into a reverie with the letter before him. “Carew is dead--but still I can manage it. Perhaps it is just as well that he is dead. I was always afraid of Carew.” Then he wrote a letter, which he addressed to “Signor Bruno, care of Mrs. Potter, St. Mary Western, Dorset.” “I shall come,” he wrote, “but not in the way you suggest. I have a better plan. You must not know me when we meet.” He purchased a twenty-five centime stamp from Mr. Jacquetot, and posted the letter with his own hand in the little wall-box at the corner of the Rue St. Gingolphe. CHAPTER VIII FALSE METAL There was, however, no cricket for Stanley Carew that morning. When they came within sight of the house Mrs. Carew emerged from an open window carrying several letters in her hand. She was not hurrying, but walking leisurely, reading a letter as she walked. “Just think, Hilda dear,” she said, with as much surprise as she ever allowed herself. “I have had a letter from the Vicomte d'Audierne. You remember him?” “Yes,” said the girl; “I remember him, of course. He is not the sort of man one forgets.” “I always liked the Viscount,” said Mrs. Carew, pensively looking at the letter she held in her hand. “He was a good friend to us at one time. I never understood him, and I like men whom one does not understand.” Hilda laughed. “Yes,” she answered vaguely. “Your father admired him tremendously,” Mrs. Carew went on to say. “He said that he was one of the cleverest men in France, but that he had fallen in a wrong season, and would not adapt himself. Had France been a monarchy, the Vicomte d'Audierne would have been in a very different position.” Vellacott did not open his own letters. He seemed to be interested in the conversation of these ladies. He was not a reserved man, but a secretive, which is quite a different thing. Reserve is natural--it comes unbidden, and often unwelcome. Secretiveness is born of circumstances. Some men find it imperative to cultivate it, although their soul revolts within them. In professional or social matters it is often merely an expediency--in some cases it almost feels like a crime. There are some secrets which cannot be divulged; there are some deceptions which a certain book-keeper will record upon the credit side of our account.