"Well, now, it may have been ten days ago that a stranger called in and asked if I had any news of the corporal who praised my white wine. 'Have I any news,' said I, 'of a needle in a bundle of hay. They all praise it.'" (O Madame Jupille!) "'The corporal I'm speaking of,' said he, 'is or was called Champdivers.' 'Was' I cried, 'You are not going to tell me that he's dead?' and I declare to you, comrade, the tears came into my eyes. 'No, he is not,' said the stranger, 'and the best proof is that he will be here inquiring for letters before long. You are to tell him that if he expects one from'—see, I took the name down on a scrap of paper, and stuck it in the wine-glass here—'from Miss Flora Gilchrist, he will do well to wait in Paris until a friend finds means to deliver it by hand. And if he asks more about me, say that I am from—tenez! I wrote the second name underneath—yes, that is it—'Mr. Romaine.'"
"Confound his caution," said I. "What sort of man was this messenger?"
"O, a staid-looking man, dark and civil spoken. You might call him an upper servant, or perhaps a notary's clerk; very plainly dressed, in black."
"He spoke French?"
"Parfaitement. What else?"
"And he has not called again?"
"To be sure, yes, and the day before yesterday, and seemed quite disappointed. 'Is there anything Monsieur would like to add to his message?' I asked. 'No,' said he, 'or stay, tell him that all goes well in the North, but he must not leave Paris until I see him.'"
You may guess how I cursed Mr. Romaine for this beating about the bush. If all went well in the North, what possible excuse of caution could the man have for holding back Flora's letter? And how, in any case, could it com-
