The gossip, led by Noel Vanstone, consisted as usual of an endless string of questions, and was devoted entirely to the subject of himself and his future prospects.  Where would Lecount take him to when they went away the next morning?  Why to London?  Why should he be left in London, while Lecount went on to St. Crux to give the admiral the Letter and the Will?  Because his wife might follow him, if he went to the admiral’s?  Well, there was something in that.  And because he ought to be safely concealed from her, in some comfortable lodging, near Mr. Loscombe?  Why near Mr. Loscombe?  Ah, yes, to be sure—­to know what the law would do to help him.  Would the law set him free from the Wretch who had deceived him?  How tiresome of Lecount not to know!  Would the law say he had gone and married himself a second time, because he had been living with the Wretch, like husband and wife, in Scotland?  Anything that publicly assumed to be a marriage was a marriage (he had heard) in Scotland.  How excessively tiresome of Lecount to sit there and say she knew nothing about it!  Was he to stay long in London by himself, with nobody but Mr. Loscombe to speak to?  Would Lecount come back to him as soon as she had put those important papers in the admiral’s own hands?  Would Lecount consider herself still in his service?  The good Lecount! the excellent Lecount!  And after all the law-business was over—­what then?  Why not leave this horrid England and go abroad again?  Why not go to France, to some cheap place near Paris?  Say Versailles? say St. Germain?  In a nice little French house—­cheap?  With a nice French bonne to cook—­who wouldn’t waste his substance in the grease-pot?  With a nice little garden—­where he could work himself, and get health, and save the expense of keeping a gardener?  It wasn’t a bad idea.  And it seemed to promise well for the future—­didn’t it, Lecount?

So he ran on—­the poor weak creature! the abject, miserable little man!

As the darkness gathered at the close of the short November day he began to grow drowsy—­his ceaseless questions came to an end at last—­he fell asleep.  The wind outside sang its mournful winter-song; the tramp of passing footsteps, the roll of passing wheels on the road ceased in dreary silence.  He slept on quietly.  The firelight rose and fell on his wizen little face and his nervous, drooping hands.  Mrs. Lecount had not pitied him yet.  She began to pity him now.  Her point was gained; her interest in his will was secured; he had put his future life, of his own accord, under her fostering care—­the fire was comfortable; the circumstances were favorable to the growth of Christian feeling.  “Poor wretch!” said Mrs. Lecount, looking at him with a grave compassion—­“poor wretch!”