M. de Bellegarde gave a shrug.  “Eh, sir, find out or not, as you please.”

“I don’t frighten you?” demanded Newman.

“That’s for you to judge.”

“No, it’s for you to judge, at your leisure.  Think it over, feel yourself all round.  I will give you an hour or two.  I can’t give you more, for how do we know how fast they may be making Madame de Cintre a nun?  Talk it over with your mother; let her judge whether she is frightened.  I don’t believe she is as easily frightened, in general, as you; but you will see.  I will go and wait in the village, at the inn, and I beg you to let me know as soon as possible.  Say by three o’clock.  A simple yes or no on paper will do.  Only, you know, in case of a yes I shall expect you, this time, to stick to your bargain.”  And with this Newman opened the door and let himself out.  The marquis did not move, and Newman, retiring, gave him another look.  “At the inn, in the village,” he repeated.  Then he turned away altogether and passed out of the house.

He was extremely excited by what he had been doing, for it was inevitable that there should be a certain emotion in calling up the spectre of dishonor before a family a thousand years old.  But he went back to the inn and contrived to wait there, deliberately, for the next two hours.  He thought it more than probable that Urbain de Bellegarde would give no sign; for an answer to his challenge, in either sense, would be a confession of guilt.  What he most expected was silence—­in other words defiance.  But he prayed that, as he imagined it, his shot might bring them down.  It did bring, by three o’clock, a note, delivered by a footman; a note addressed in Urbain de Bellegarde’s handsome English hand.  It ran as follows:—­

“I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of letting you know that I return to Paris, to-morrow, with my mother, in order that we may see my sister and confirm her in the resolution which is the most effectual reply to your audacious pertinacity.

“Henri-Urbain de Bellegarde.”

Newman put the letter into his pocket, and continued his walk up and down the inn-parlor.  He had spent most of his time, for the past week, in walking up and down.  He continued to measure the length of the little salle of the Armes de Prance until the day began to wane, when he went out to keep his rendezvous with Mrs. Bread.  The path which led up the hill to the ruin was easy to find, and Newman in a short time had followed it to the top.  He passed beneath the rugged arch of the castle wall, and looked about him in the early dusk for an old woman in black.  The castle yard was empty, but the door of the church was open.  Newman went into the little nave and of course found a deeper dusk than without.  A couple of tapers, however, twinkled on the altar and just enabled him to perceive a figure seated by one of the pillars.  Closer inspection helped him