he believed every word that had been written to him. His face was a
picture of blank despair, and his voice was low and hoarse. 'You
must know whom she means,' he added, when Michel did not at once
reply.

'Yes; I know whom she means.'

'Who is it then, M. Voss?'

'It is George, of course,' replied the innkeeper.

'I did not know,' said poor Adrian Urmand.

'She never spoke a dozen words to any other man in her life, and as
for him, she has hardly seen him for the last eighteen months. He
has come over and said something to her, like a traitor,--has
reminded her of some childish promise, some old vow, something said
when they were children, and meaning nothing; and so he has
frightened her.'

'I was never told that there was anything between them,' said
Urmand, beginning to think that it would become him to be indignant.

'There was nothing to tell,--literally nothing.'

'They must have been writing to each other.'

'Never a line; on my word as a man. It was just as I tell you.
When George went from home, there had been some fooling, as I
thought, between them; and I was glad that he should go. I didn't