This was known to Mr. Ferrol. One evening he stopped Nic as he was
leaving the house, and said:

"See, Nic, my boy, what's up? I know a thing or so--what's the use of
playing peek-a-boo?"

"What do you know, Ferrol?"

"What's between you and Vanne Castine, for instance. Come, now, own up
and tell me all about it. I'm British; but I'm Nic Lavilette's friend
anyhow."

He insinuated into his tone that little touch of brogue which he used
when particularly persuasive. Nic put out his hand with a burst of good-
natured frankness.

"Meet me in the store-room of the old farmhouse at nine o'clock, and I'll
tell you. Here's a key." Handing over the key, he grasped Ferrol's hand
with an effusive confidence, and hurried out. Nic Lavilette was now
an important person in his own sight and in the sight of others in
Bonaventure. In him the pomp of his family took an individual form.

Earlier than the appointed time, Ferrol turned the key and stepped inside
the big despoiled hallway of the old farmhouse. His footsteps sounded
hollow in the empty rooms. Already dust had gathered, and an air of
desertion and decay filled the place in spite of the solid timbers and
sound floors and window-sills. He took out his watch; it was ten minutes
to nine. Passing through the little hallway to the store-room, he opened
the door. It was dark inside. Striking a match, he saw a candle on the
window-sill, and, going to it, he lighted it with a flint and steel lying