“There is nothing to be done to-night,” he said presently, as he made a movement towards the door, “but to go to bed. To-morrow the _Beacon_ will be published, and the result will probably be rather startling. We shall hear something before to-morrow afternoon.” Sidney lighted Mr. Bodery's candle and shook hands. “By the way,” said the editor, turning back and speaking more lightly, “if any one should inquire--your mother or one of your sisters--you can say that I am not in the least anxious about Vellacott. Good night.” CHAPTER XVII A RETREAT It was quite early the next morning when the Vicomte d'Audierne left his room. As he walked along the still corridor and down the stairs it was noticeable that he made absolutely no sound, without, however, indulging in any of those contortions which are peculiar to late arrivals in church. It would seem that Nature had for purposes of her own made his footfall noiseless--if, by the way, Nature can be credited with any purpose whatever in her allotment of human gifts and failings. In the hall he found a stout cook armed for assault upon the front-door step. “Good morning,” he said. “Can you tell me the breakfast-hour? I forgot to inquire last night.” “Nine o'clock, sir,” replied the servant, rather taken aback at the thought of having this visitor dependent upon her for entertainment during the next hour and a half. “Ah--and it is not yet eight. Never mind. I will go into the garden. I am fond of fruit before breakfast.” He took his hat and lounged away towards the kitchen-garden which lay near the moat. “And now,” he said to himself, looking round him in a searching way, “where is this pestilential village?” The way was not hard to find, and as the church clock struck eight the Vicomte d'Audierne opened the little green gate of the cottage where Signor Bruno was lodging. The old gentleman must have been watching for him; for he opened the door before the Vicomte reached it. He turned and led the way into a little room on the right hand of the narrow passage. A little room intensely typical: china dogs, knitted antimacassars of a brilliant tendency, and horse-hair covered furniture. There was even the usual stuffy odour as if the windows, half-hidden behind muslin curtains and scarlet geraniums, were never opened from one year's end to another. Signor Bruno closed the door before speaking. Then he turned upon his companion with something very like fury glittering in his eyes. “Why did you not come last night?” he asked. “I am left alone to contend against one difficulty on the top of another. Read that!” He drew from his pocket a thin and somewhat crumpled sheet of paper, upon which there were two columns of printed matter.