He pocketed the notes without deigning to look at them, and then, drawing closer to Caffarelli, said, in a whisper, “You 'll have to keep your friend yonder somewhat 'better in hand,'--you will, really. If not, I shall have to shoot him.” “The Chevalier Maitland is your superior officer, sir,” said Caffarelli, haughtily. “Take care how you speak of him to any one, but more especially to me, who am his friend.” “I am at his 'friend's' orders, equally,” said the Major; “my case contains two pistols.” Caffarelli turned away with a shrug of the shoulder, and a look that unmistakably bespoke disgust. “Here goes, then, for the stirrup-cup!” said M'Caskey, filling a large goblet with Burgundy. “To our next meeting, gentlemen,” and he bowed as he lifted it to his lips. “Won't you drink to my toast?” said he, stopping. Caffarelli filled his glass, and touched it to his lips; but Maitland sat with his gaze bent upon the fire, and never looked up. “Present my homage to the pretty widow when you see her, Maitland, and give her that;” and he flung down a photograph on the table. “It's not a good one, but it will serve to remind her of me.” Maitland seized the card and pitched it into the fire, pressing down the embers with his boot. Caffarelli sprang forward, and laid his hands on M'Caskey's shoulders. “When and where?” said the Major, calmly. “Now--here--if you like,” said Maitland, as calmly. “At last,” said a deep voice; and a brigadier of the gendarmerie entered, followed by two of his men. “M. le Comte,” said he, addressing the Major, “I have been in search of you since eleven o'clock. There 's a special train waiting to convey you to Macon; pray don't lose any more time.” “I shall be at Naples within a fortnight,” whispered Maitland. “All right,” replied M'Caskey. “M. le Brigadier, _à vos ordres_. Good-bye, Count. By the way, I was forgetting my cheroots, which are really excellent;” and so saying, he carefully placed them in his cigar-case; and then, giving his great-coat to one of the gendarmes to assist him while he drew it on, he waved a little familiar adieu with his hand and departed. “My dear Maitland, how could you so far forget yourself, and with such a man?” said Caffarelli, laying his hands on his shoulder. “With any _other_ man I could _not_ have forgotten myself,” said he, sternly. “Let us think no more of him.” CHAPTER XXXI. TWO FRIENDS It was like a return to his former self--to his gay, happy, careless nature--for Tony Butler to find himself with his friend Skeflfy. As painters lay layers of the same color on, one over the other, to deepen the effect, so does youth double itself by companionship. As for Skeflfy, never did a schoolboy exult more in a holiday; and, like a schoolboy, his spirits boiled over in all manner of small excesses, practical jokes on his fellow-passengers, and all those glorious tomfooleries, to be able to do which with zest is worth all the enjoyment that ever cynicism yielded twice told.