to intercept me. It was a man with his hands in front of him, half stuck in his breeches pockets, and his shoulders square—a real knock-about fellow. Alfred, of course. He waited for me by the stone fence.     

       “Excuse me,” he said as I came up.     

       I came to a halt in front of him and looked into his sullen blue eyes. He had a certain odd haughtiness on his brows. But his blue eyes stared insolently at me.     

       “Do you know anything about a letter—in French—that my wife opened—a letter of mine?”      

       “Yes,” said I. “She asked me to read it to her.”      

       He looked square at me. He did not know exactly how to feel.     

       “What was there in it?” he asked.     

       “Why?” I said. “Don't you know?”      

       “She makes out she's burnt it,” he said.     

       “Without showing it you?” I asked.     

       He nodded slightly. He seemed to be meditating as to what line of action he should take. He wanted to know the contents of the letter: he must know: and therefore he must ask me, for evidently his wife had taunted him. At the same time, no doubt, he would like to wreak untold vengeance on my unfortunate person. So he eyed me, and I eyed him, and neither of us spoke. He did not want to repeat his request to me. And yet I only looked at him, and considered.     

       Suddenly he threw back his head and glanced down the valley. Then he changed his position and he looked at me more confidentially.     

       “She burnt the blasted thing before I saw it,” he said.     

       “Well,” I answered slowly, “she doesn't know herself what was in it.”      

       He continued to watch me narrowly. I grinned to myself.     

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