But even then she did not know how much she was indebted to the schoolmaster's advice. She was thinking of the scandal which must have arisen had the police been called in, of the publication of Millie's folly to the world of her acquaintances. That was prevented now. If Tony took back his wife--as with all her heart she hoped he would--he would not, at all events, take back one of whom gossip would be speaking with a slighting tongue. She was not aware that Tony had deserted from the Legion to keep his tryst upon the thirty-first of the month. Afterwards, when she did learn this, she was glad that she had not lacked warmth when she had expressed her gratitude to M. Giraud. A look of pleasure came into the schoolmaster's face. "I am very glad," he said. "When I brought the doctor back the two within the room were talking quietly together; we could hear their voices through the door. So I came away. I walked up to the villa here. But it was already late, and the lights were out--except in one room on an upper floor looking over the sea--that room," and he pointed to a window. "Yes, that is my room," said Pamela. "I thought it was likely to be yours, and I hesitated whether I should fling up a stone; but I was not sure that it was your room. So I determined to wait until the morning. I am sorry, for you have been very anxious and have not slept--I can see that. I could have saved you some hours of anxiety." Pamela laughed in friendliness, and the laugh told him surely that her distress had gone from her. "That does not matter," she said. "You have brought me very good news. I could well afford to wait for it." The schoolmaster remained in an awkward hesitation at the gate; it was clear that he had something more to say. It was no less clear that he found the utterance of it very difficult. Pamela guessed what was in his mind, and, after her own fashion, she helped him to speak it. She opened the gate, which up till now had stood closed between them. "Come in for a little while, won't you?" she said; and she led the way through the garden to that narrow corner on the bluff of the hill which had so many associations for them both. If M. Giraud meant to say what she thought he did, here was the one place where utterance would be easy. Here they had interchanged, in other times, their innermost thoughts, their most sacred confidences. The stone parapet, the bench, the plot of grass, the cedar in the angle of the corner--among these familiar things memories must throb for him even as they did for her. Pamela sat down upon the parapet and, leaning over, gazed into the torrent far below. She wished him to take his time. She had a thought that even if he had not in his mind that utterance which she hoped to hear, the recollection of those other days, vividly renewed, might suggest it. And in a moment or two he spoke. "It is true, mademoiselle, that I was of service to you last night?" "Yes," replied Pamela, gently; "that is quite true."