“Poor little dead things’” said Lys in a whisper; “it seems a pity—­doesn’t it, Dick?  But then you are so clever——­”

“We’ll have them broiled,” I said guardedly, “tell Catherine.”

Catherine came in to take away the game, and presently ’Fine Lelocard, Lys’s maid, announced dinner, and Lys tripped away to her boudoir.

I stood an instant contemplating her blissfully, thinking, “My boy, you’re the happiest fellow in the world—­you’re in love with your wife’”

I walked into the dining-room, beamed at the plates, walked out again; met Tregunc in the hallway, beamed on him; glanced into the kitchen, beamed at Catherine, and went up stairs, still beaming.

Before I could knock at Lys’s door it opened, and Lys came hastily out.  When she saw me she gave a little cry of relief, and nestled close to my breast.

“There is something peering in at my window,” she said.

“What!” I cried angrily.

“A man, I think, disguised as a priest, and he has a mask on.  He must have climbed up by the bay tree.”

I was down the stairs and out of doors in no time.  The moonlit garden was absolutely deserted.  Tregunc came up, and together we searched the hedge and shrubbery around the house and out to the road.

“Jean Marie,” said I at length, “loose my bulldog—­he knows you—­and take your supper on the porch where you can watch.  My wife says the fellow is disguised as a priest, and wears a mask.”

Tregunc showed his white teeth in a smile.  “He will not care to venture in here again, I think, Monsieur Darrel.”

I went back and found Lys seated quietly at the table.

“The soup is ready, dear,” she said.  “Don’t worry; it was only some foolish lout from Bannalec.  No one in St. Gildas or St. Julien would do such a thing.”

I was too much exasperated to reply at first, but Lys treated it as a stupid joke, and after a while I began to look at it in that light.

Lys told me about Yvonne, and reminded me of my promise to have Herbert Stuart down to meet her.

“You wicked diplomat!” I protested.  “Herbert is in Paris, and hard at work for the Salon.”

“Don’t you think he might spare a week to flirt with the prettiest girl in Finistere?” inquired Lys innocently.

“Prettiest girl!  Not much!” I said.

“Who is, then?” urged Lys.

I laughed a trifle sheepishly.

“I suppose you mean me, Dick,” said Lys, coloring up.

“Now I bore you, don’t I?”

“Bore me?  Ah, no, Dick.”

After coffee and cigarettes were served I spoke about Tregunc, and Lys approved.

“Poor Jean!  He will be glad, won’t he?  What a dear fellow you are!”

“Nonsense,” said I; “we need a gardener; you said so yourself, Lys.”

But Lys leaned over and kissed me, and then bent down and hugged Mome—­who whistled through his nose in sentimental appreciation.