THE AMERICAN
anything but the curfew, he was sure—had tolled for the weary serfs and villains (as he could also quite have believed) and the small street of Fleurières was unlighted and empty. She promised he should have what he was after, as he had called it, in half an hour. Mrs. Bread choosing not to go in by the great gate, they passed round by a winding lane to a door in the wall of the park, of which she had the key and which would enable her to re-enter the house from behind. Newman arranged with her that he should await outside the wall her return with his prize.
She went in, and his half-hour in the dusky lane seemed very long. But he had plenty to think about. At last the door in the wall opened and Mrs. Bread stood there with one hand on the latch and the other holding out a scrap of white paper folded small and dearer to his sight than any love-token ever brought of old by bribed duenna to lurking cavalier. In a moment he was master of it and it had passed into his waistcoat pocket. "Come and see me in Paris," he said; "we're to settle your future, you know; and I'll translate poor M. de Bellegarde's French to you." Never had he felt so grateful as at this moment for M. Nioche's instructions.
Mrs. Bread's eyes had followed the disappearance of her treasure, and she gave a heavy sigh. "Well, you've done what you would with me, sir, and I suppose you 'll do it again. You must take care of me now. You're a terribly positive gentleman."
"Just now," said Newman, "I'm a terribly impatient one!" And he bade her good-night and walked rapidly back to the inn. He ordered his vehicle to be
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