"Why, what folly is this that you are talking?" exclaimed Gabrielle, a trifle awed in spite of herself. "You are not serious, monsieur? You cannot be." Vassilitch did not answer. "His name? Tell me his name," was the impatient command. "I will tell you, but not now." "You are very mysterious," said Gabrielle, watching him closely. "You must be aware that you are keeping me in suspense." Vassilitch rose. "It is merely a fancy of mine," said he. "I ask you to believe that I have spoken the simple truth. I am still prepared to carry out your instructions; but I should like you to consider the assurance that I have given you. In a short time I hope to see you again. Perhaps--anyhow, you know that I am your servant; you have but to command me. I will wish you good-night, mademoiselle." Gabrielle extended her hand. She was troubled by the bitterness of his smile. Certainly this man was mysterious to-night. "Where are you staying?" she asked, suddenly, willing to prolong the conversation. "At the L---- Hotel." "You will dine with me one night? This place is quiet, but it has its charm." "Nothing would delight me more." "To-morrow?" "You are very good, but I have an engagement. Do you recollect the Englishman--I have his card here--George Tweed? That is it. He was in Cumberland when----" "I remember him perfectly." "Well, we met this evening in London. He extracted from me a promise to take supper with him to-morrow night. He wants me to meet a great friend of his, and a countryman of ours, whose conversation he vowed would interest me." "Indeed? Did he mention the name?" "Yes. It was--it was--no, it has slipped my memory. It scarcely matters." A servant came at a touch of the bell. The visitor descended the stairs and left the cottage. Impelled by a sudden impulse Gabrielle ran to the window and pulled up the blind. He would see her standing there. What of that? The crunch of his heavy footfall sounded upon the gravel, and his voice came clearly--"Good-night!" She replied and felt glad. Gabrielle drew down the blind again and retreated into the well-lighted room. She paused by the table and put to herself, aloud, a direct question: "Why did I tell him that--that he was my brother?" And she replied, in as direct a fashion: "I imagined that he--cared for me a little. If he had known the truth should I have been able so to command him? I cannot think so." The recollection of the time when she had met Ivan Vassilitch brought to her certain details of the occasion; and suddenly she remembered that conversation in which famous echoes that appear to gather sound and reverberate had been likened to actions that will not leave a life. She had compared that cruel wrong which had destroyed her peace with one of these deeds that come back to break in thunder. She recalled the reminiscence with a sense of uneasiness. IV. There were half-a-dozen men in the coffee-room at the club.