cicada in a burning August, but the abnormally long, clawlike hands were sinewy-corded and strong. That gesture of the hands on the apron, and the subservient bow, so entirely out of key with the proud poise of the woman standing with her graceful arm across the entrance, confirmed the Frenchman's suspicions of a probable step-fatherhood instead of a nearer relationship.
"The illustrious Señor will be leaving tonight," the innkeeper ventured with an illy-assumed graciousness, that clawlike hand instinctively stretching out from the apron.
"Yes, I go tonight. Pierre will come for my little luggage. Your daughter, who has been most kind, has refused, but here is my reckoning."
Again Linda pushed away the hand with the notes.
"Father—not from him. I tell you—he is our guest. You know what evil comes to those who are misers with their hospitality."
She turned towards the younger man.
"The good padre in the big church up yonder says to give of our best to strangers, even so we serve angels, not knowing."
The wistful smile tingled with little thrills of coquetry.
"Perhaps you are one of them, Monsieur. Who knows?"
"No, Linda, only the evil one of misfortune travels with me."
Her smile faded when she saw the sympathy in his look—and—nothing more.
The expression on the innkeeper's face changed, too. The smile which had a flavour like his thinnest sourest wines and
