for the French must always quarrel among themselves until they are
actually on the brink of national catastrophe. And even when they
are fallen into that pit they will quarrel at the bottom, and
bespatter each other with the mud that is there.

"Are we all here?" asked Albert de Chantonnay, standing in an
effective attitude at the end of the table, with his hand on the
back of his chair. He counted the number of his fellow-
conspirators, and then sat down, drawing forward a candelabra.

"You have been summoned in haste," he said, "by the request of the
Marquis de Gemosac to listen to the perusal of a letter of
importance. It may be of the utmost importance--to us--to France--
to all the world."

He drew the letter from his pocket and opened it amid a breathless
silence. His listeners noted the care with which he attended to
gesture and demeanour, and accounted it to him for righteousness;
for they were French. An English audience would have thought him
insincere, and they would have been wrong.

"The letter is dated from a place called Farlingford, in England. I
have never heard of it. It is nowhere near to Twickenham or
Claremont, nor is it in Buckinghamshire. The rest of England--no
one knows." Albert paused and held up one hand for silence.

"At last," he read--"at last, my friends, after a lifetime of
fruitless search, it seems that I have found--through the good
offices of Dormer Colville--not the man we have sought, but his son.
We have long suspected that Louis XVII. must be dead. Madame