"Yes," he answered, "and I shall visit him without delay." "In Paris?" I asked, not quite sure that Monsieur le Grand was King Louis of France, and not desiring to know certainly. "In Paris," he answered, giving me to understand by his manner that he must tell me nothing more definite of Le Grand's identity. "Don't tell me what you know of the business this letter refers to, but tell me whether you know," I said, hoping that George might at least tell me it meant good fortune for him. "I cannot even conjecture the business upon which I am wanted," he said, "but I hope that it may give me an opportunity to be of service to the writer." Thus I was relieved of the disagreeable task of trying to induce George to leave England, and was very thankful to escape it. After a long silence, during which he read the one-line letter many times, he asked:-- "Are you willing to bring Frances to me early to-morrow morning, if she will come?" "Doubtless I can," I answered. "Her willingness to come has been shown all too plainly of late; but ought I bring her?" "Yes. It will be the last time I shall ever see her unless good fortune lies in this letter, and for that I hardly dare hope. You know that when a man's luck has been against him for a long time, it kills the very roots of hope and brings him almost to doubt certainty. Soon after I have seen my friend, Le Grand, I shall write to you in cipher, of which I shall leave you the key. If I see a prospect of fortune worthy of Frances, I shall ask her to wait a time for me, but if my ill fortune pursues me, I shall never again be heard from by any one in England. Are you satisfied with the conditions?" I gave him my hand for answer, and told him I would bring Frances to him early the following morning. I hastened back to Whitehall, and coming upon Frances unengaged, asked her to go to her parlor with me. When she had closed the door, she turned to me, asking:-- "What is it, Baron Ned? Tell me quickly. I know there is something wrong with George." "Will you go with me early to-morrow morning to see Betty--very early?" I asked. Her eyes opened in wonder, and she answered, somewhat amused: "You have been acting as my guardian for a long time, cousin Ned, and now I think I owe it to you to return the favor. You should not see so much of Betty. I know you mean no wrong to her, but you will cause her great suffering if you continue to see her, for you must know that already the girl is almost mad with love of you. Yet you cannot marry her." "Nor can you marry some one else," I retorted, almost angrily, for a man dislikes to be prodded by a painful truth. "Ah, well, I suppose we are a pair of fools," she said. "You're right, Frances," I answered philosophically, "and the only consolation we can find lies in the fact that we know it." "Most fools lack that flattering unction," returned Frances, musingly.