A part of the night he lay still upon the narrow bed, a part he spent in slow walking up and down the narrow room, a part he stood motionless by the window.  The dawn was faintly in the sky when at last he took from beneath the pillow his purse and a belt filled with gold pieces and sat down to count them over and compare the total with the figures upon a piece of paper.  This done, he dressed, the light now gray around him.  The letter to Senor Nobody lay yet upon the table.  At last, dressed, he took it up and put it in the purse with the gold.  Leaving the room, he waked his servant where he lay and gave him directions.  A faint yellow light gleamed in the lowest east.

He waited an hour, then went to the room where slept the secretary and the physician.  They were both up and dressing.  The physician had been to his patron’s room.  “Yes, his lordship was better—­was awake—­meant after a while to rise.”  Glenfernie would send in a request.  Something had occurred which made him very desirous to see his lordship.  If he might have a few minutes—?  The secretary agreed to make the inquiry, went and returned with the desired invitation.  Glenfernie followed him to the nobleman’s chamber and was greeted with geniality.  Seated by the Englishman’s bed, he made his explanation and request.  He had so much gold with him—­he showed the contents of the belt and purse—­and he had funds with an agent in Paris and again funds in Amsterdam.  Here were letters of indication.  With a total unexpectedness there had come to him in this town a call that he could not ignore.  He could not explain the nature of it, but a man of honor would feel it imperative.  But it would take nicely all his gold and so many pieces besides.  He asked the loan of these, together with an additional amount sufficient to bring him through to Paris.  Once there he could make repayment.  In the mean time his personal note and word—­The Englishman made no trouble at all.

“I’ll take your countenance and bearing, Mr. Jardine.  But I’ll make condition that we do travel together, after all, as far, at least, as Tours, where I mean to stop awhile.”

“I agree to that,” said Glenfernie.

The secretary counted out for him the needed gold.  In the narrow room in which he had slept he put this with his own in a bag.  He put with it no writing.  There was nothing but the bare gold.  Carrying it with him, he went out to find the horses saddled and waiting.  With Gil behind him, he went from the inn and out of the town.  The letter to Senor Nobody had given explicit enough direction.  Clear of all buildings, he drew rein and took bearings.  Here was the stream, the stump of a burned mill, the mountain-going road, narrower and rougher than the way of main travel.  He followed this road; the horses fell into a plodding deliberateness of pace.  The sunshine streamed warm around, but there was little human life here to feel its rays.  After a time there came emergence into a bare, houseless, almost