“Yes; they were despatched in the usual way; but, as I say, they have not been acknowledged. There may have been some difficulty on the other side. Our police are not so easy-going as these coastguard gentlemen.” “Well,” said the aristocrat, with that semi-bantering lightness of manner which sometimes aggravated, and always puzzled, his colleagues, “we will not give ourselves trouble over that: the matter is out of our hands. Let us rather think of ourselves. Have you money?” “Yes--I have sufficient.” “It is now eight o'clock--this newspaper--this precious _Beacon_ is now casting its light into some dark intellects in London. It will take those intellects two hours to assimilate the information, and one more hour to proceed to action. You have, therefore, three hours in which to make yourself scarce.” “I have arranged that,” replied the old man calmly. “There is a small French potato-ship lying at Exmouth. In two hours I shall be one of her crew.” “That is well. And the others?” “The others left yesterday afternoon. They cross by this morning's boat from Southampton to Cherbourg. You see how much I have had to do.” “I see also, my friend, how well you have done it.” “And now,” said Signor Bruno, ignoring the compliment, “I must go. We will walk away by the back garden across the fields. You must remember that you may have been seen coming here.” “I have thought of that. One old man saw me, but he did not look at me twice. He will not know me again. And your landlady--where is she?” “I have sent her out on a fool's errand.” As they spoke they left the little cottage by the back door, as Signor Bruno had proposed, through the little garden, and across some low-lying fields. Presently they parted, Signor Bruno turning to the left, while the Vicomte d'Audierne kept to the right. “We shall meet, I suppose,” were the last words of the younger man, “in the Rue St. Gingolphe?” “Yes--in the Rue St. Gingolphe.” For so old a man the pace at which Signor Bruno breasted the hill that lay before him was somewhat remarkable. The Vicomte d'Audierne, on the other hand, was evidently blessed with a greater leisure. He looked at his watch and strolled on through the dew-laden meadows, wrapt in thought as in a cloak that hid the sweet freshness of the flowery hedgerows, that muffled the broken song of the busy birds, that killed the scent of ripening hay. Thus these two singular men parted--and it happened that they were never to meet again. These little things _do_ happen. We meet with gravity; we part with a smile; perhaps we make an appointment; possibly we speak of the pleasure that the meeting seems to promise: and the next meeting is put off; it belongs to the great postponement.