"Monsieur le Comte Hamilton begs me to say that he was called away from London early to-day on the king's business, but that he will return in four weeks. When he returns he will do himself the honor to send me again, asking you to name a friend, unless you prefer to apologize, which no gentleman would do in a case of this sort. You said, I am told, that Monsieur le Comte lied. If you admit that he did not lie, of course you admit that you did. So, im-pos-si-ble! There must be to fight!" "Do you know, count, the cause of my having given Count Hamilton the lie?" I asked. "I did not inquire," he answered smilingly. "To me it was to carry the message." "George Hamilton is your friend, is he not?" I asked. "Yes, but far more, he is the friend of my king, and will make entreaty with my monarch for my return to France," answered De Grammont. "It was because of Count Hamilton's insulting reference to his brother that I used the ugly word," I returned. "A-ah, that is different!" Then recovering himself quickly: "But I undertook the mission. It is to finish. Monsieur George Hamilton? My friend? My king's friend? If it had been known to me! But you have the message of 'Sieur le Comte." After a short silence he said, "When Monsieur le Comte Hamilton returns, I shall ask him to relieve me of this duty." As De Grammont was leaving my closet, he paused at the door, and, after a moment's hesitancy, whispered:-- "You may expect a letter from France soon. It will come from M. l'Abbé du Boise, who I hope will come soon to London on the business of my king. You know him not--M. l'Abbé?" The eyebrows lifted questioningly. "No? You soon will know him, yet you will not know him. You and perhaps a lady may help him in his mission. I, too, shall help him, but I, too, know him not. Yet I know him. If he succeed in his mission, he will be rich, he will be powerful. And I? Mon Dieu, my friend! If he succeed, my decree of banishment from Paris--it will be to revoke. I may return once more to bask in the smile of my king. You must not speak; the lady must not speak; I must not speak when Monsieur l'Abbé comes, nor before. It is to silence. Stone walls have one ear." "Two, sometimes, count," I suggested, laughing. "Yes, I should have said one ears! Non, non! I forget this damnable tongue of yours! When I arrive to great interest, it is to talk faster than it is to think, and--" A shrug of the shoulders finished the sentence. "Let us speak French hereafter, my dear count," I suggested. "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! It is to me more of pain to hear my sweet language murdered than to murder yours," answered Grammont, seriously. "Ah, but I speak French quite as well as I speak English. Perhaps I shall not murder it," I replied. "Perhaps? We shall try," he said, though with little show of faith. I began speaking French, but when I paused for his verdict, he shrugged his shoulders, saying:--