“We have a proverb,” said Shelton, “’A bird in the hand is worth two birds in the bush!’”

“That,” returned Ferrand, “like all proverbs, is just half true.  This is an affair of temperament.  It ’s not in my character to dandle one when I see two waiting to be caught; ’voyager, apprendre, c’est plus fort que moi’.”  He paused; then, with a nervous goggle of the eyes and an ironic smile he said:  “Besides, ‘mon cher monsieur’, it is better that I go.  I have never been one to hug illusions, and I see pretty clearly that my presence is hardly acceptable in this house.”

“What makes you say that?” asked, Shelton, feeling that the murder was now out.”

“My dear sir, all the world has not your understanding and your lack of prejudice, and, though your friends have been extremely kind to me, I am in a false position; I cause them embarrassment, which is not extraordinary when you reflect what I have been, and that they know my history.”

“Not through me,” said Shelton quickly, “for I don’t know it myself.”

“It’s enough,” the vagrant said, “that they feel I’m not a bird of their feather.  They cannot change, neither can I. I have never wanted to remain where I ’m not welcome.”

Shelton turned to the window, and stared into the darkness; he would never quite understand this vagabond, so delicate, so cynical, and he wondered if Ferrand had been swallowing down the words, “Why, even you won’t be sorry to see my back!”

“Well,” he said at last, “if you must go, you must.  When do you start?”

“I ’ve arranged with a man to carry my things to the early train.  I think it better not to say good-bye.  I ’ve written a letter instead; here it is.  I left it open for you to read if you should wish,”

“Then,” said Shelton, with a curious mingling of relief, regret, good-will, “I sha’n’t see you again?”

Ferrand gave his hand a stealthy rub, and held it out.

“I shall never forget what you have done for me,” he said.

“Mind you write,” said Shelton.

“Yes, yes”—­the, vagrant’s face was oddly twisted—­“you don’t know what a difference it makes to have a correspondent; it gives one courage.  I hope to remain a long time in correspondence with you.”

“I dare say you do,” thought Shelton grimly, with a certain queer emotion.

“You will do me the justice to remember that I have never asked you for anything,” said Ferrand.  “Thank you a thousand times.  Good-bye!”

He again wrung his patron’s hand in his damp grasp, and, going out, left Shelton with an odd sensation in his throat.  “You will do me the justice to remember that I have never asked you for anything.”  The phrase seemed strange, and his mind flew back over all this queer acquaintanceship.  It was a fact:  from the beginning to the end the youth had never really asked for anything.  Shelton sat down on his bed, and began to read the letter in his hand.  It was in French.