“He must have come by way of the Boutiques,” I said, “for those stones have not been moved.”

“And yet Uncle George seemed certain that no one besides himself knew of this place.  ’No living man’—­that is what he said.”

“He’ll be the more surprised when he comes,” I said, and we left it there.

The sight of Monsieur Torode lying there like a dead man was not a cheerful one, so we left him and went to our usual place by the water-cave.  And, when we came to the well, Carette said, “Ugh! it looks as if it knew all about it,” and the bulging eye of the spring goggled furiously at us as we passed.

We had nothing to eat all that day, but drinks of water, mixed now and then with a little cognac.  For myself it did not matter much, for I had my pipe, but I felt keenly for Carette.  She would not admit that she was hungry, but during the afternoon she fell asleep leaning against me, and I sat very still lest I should waken her to her hunger.  And her face as it lay against my arm was like the face of a saint, so sweet and pure and heedless of the world.

It was I awoke her after all.

I was pondering whether we should not make our way out by the tunnel, for if we stopped there much longer we should starve.  And the idea had struck me all of a heap, that if any ill had befallen George Hamon or my grandfather we might wait in vain for their coming, when a shout came pealing down the long and narrow cleft of the cave—­

“Carre!  Phil Carre!”

I thought it was George Hamon’s voice, and the start I gave woke Carette, and we set off for the rock parlour.

Before we got there the shouts had ceased, and in their place we heard a torrent of amazed oaths and knew that Uncle George had lighted on Torode.

“Dieu-de-dieu—­de-dieu-de-dieu-de-dieu!” met us as we drew near.  “What in the name of the holy St. Magloire is this?” cried he, as soon as he saw us.  He had lit his lantern, his head was bound round with a bloody cloth and he was bending over the bed.

“We had a visitor,” I said jauntily, for the sight of him was very cheering, even though he seemed all on his beam-ends, and maybe the sight of a basket he had dropped on the ground went no small way towards uplifting my spirits.

“Thousand devils!” he said furiously,—­and I had never in my life seen him so before.—­“A visitor!—­Here!  But it is not possible—­”

I pointed to the wounded man.  “It is Monsieur Torode from Herm.  We had a discussion, and he got hurt.”

“Torode!” he said, and knelt hastily, and held his lantern so that the light fell full on the dark face, and peered into it intently, while we stood wondering.

His eyes gleamed like venomous pointed tools.  He stared long and hard.  Then he did a strange thing.  He put his hand under Torode’s black moustache and folded it back off his mouth, and drew back himself to arm’s length, and stared and stared, and we knew that some strange matter was toward.