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THE BLACK WOLF'S BREED

of mine would grace those pretty lips as well as thine own sweet syllables. So I can not tell you what to say."

Florine pouted her dissent, yet was not in earnest angered—she was a woman. Jerome saw her business lay deeper than mere jest and badinage, so he spoke her more seriously.

"I pray you Mademoiselle—Florine?—am I right? Be seated."

Florine had no thought for gallantries; she declined the proffered seat, and, standing, proceeded at once to the point of her mission.

"There is a young gentleman in our house," and she blushed a little, Jerome declared to me afterwards, "in Bertrand's wine room—you know the place? locked up, and I am not certain whether he lives or is dead. I can not tell Monsieur his name, but you know him. Oh, he was kind to me, and I would willingly do something to save him. It is so hard to be only a woman. The Provost has the house guarded."

"I know it," Jerome put in drily.

"This gentleman gave your name and lodgings to the lady who was with him there last night, and she it was who sent you the packet." Florine had run on hurriedly, unheeding Jerome's blank look of astonishment. This was probably a shrewd guess on her part, yet it squarely struck the mark.

"Lady? Sent the papers? Who? What lady?" Jerome asked before she could answer anything.

"That I must not tell, Monsieur. Oh, come, quick; get him away from there; if our people find him they