“No,” she seemed to insist; “we do not know that he refuses to come.  We only know that Manuel says so.”

The father shook his head sadly.  “When has he ever staid away three nights together before?” he asked.  “No, my child; it is intentional.  Manuel urges him to come, but he only sends poor excuses.”

“But,” said the girl, shading her face from the lamp and speaking with some suddenness, “why have you not sent word to him by some other person?”

M. D’Hemecourt looked up at his daughter a moment, and then smiled at his own simplicity.

“Ah!” he said.  “Certainly; and that is what I will—­run away, Pauline.  There is Manuel, now, ahead of time!”

A step was heard inside the cafe.  The maiden, though she knew the step was not Mazaro’s, rose hastily, opened the nearest door, and disappeared.  She had barely closed it behind her when Galahad Shaughnessy entered the apartment.

M’Hemecourt rose up, both surprised and confused.

“Good-evening, Munsher D’Himecourt,” said the Irishman.  “Munsher D’Himecourt, I know it’s against rules—­I say, I know it’s against rules to come in here, but”—­smiling,—­“I want to have a private wurd with ye.  I say, I want to have a private wurd with ye.”

In the closet of bottles the maiden smiled triumphantly.  She also wiped the dew from her forehead, for the place was very close and warm.

With her father was no triumph.  In him sadness and doubt were so mingled with anger that he dared not lift his eyes, but gazed at the knot in the wood of the table, which looked like a caterpillar curled up.

Mazaro, he concluded, had really asked the Major to come.

“Mazaro tol’ you?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered the Irishman.  “Mazaro told me I was watched, and asked”—­

“Madjor,” unluckily interrupted the old man, suddenly looking up and speaking with subdued fervor, “for w’y—­iv Mazaro tol’ you—­for w’y you din come more sooner?  Dad is one ‘eavy charge again’ you.”

“Didn’t Mazaro tell ye why I didn’t come?” asked the other, beginning to be puzzled at his host’s meaning.

“Yez,” replied M. D’Hemecourt, “bud one brev zhenteman should not be afraid of”—­

The young man stopped him with a quiet laugh, “Munsher D’Himecourt,” said he, “I’m nor afraid of any two men living—­I say I’m nor afraid of any two men living, and certainly not of the two that’s bean a-watchin’ me lately, if they’re the two I think they are.”

M. D’Hemecourt flushed in a way quite incomprehensible to the speaker, who nevertheless continued: 

“It was the charges,” he said, with some slyness in his smile.  “They are heavy, as ye say, and that’s the very reason—­I say that’s the very reason why I staid away, ye see, eh?  I say that’s the very reason I staid away.”

Then, indeed, there was a dew for the maiden to wipe from her brow, unconscious that every word that was being said bore a different significance in the mind of each of the three.  The old man was agitated.  “Bud, sir,” he began, shaking his head and lifting his hand.