Rip-snorting and chugging, the thing executed a curve before the chateau, and then, hugging the side of the lake, advanced, obviously toward my humble abode.  My heart seemed to turn a somersault.  I should have known that car if I had met it in Bagdad.  It was a long blue motor, polished to the last notch, deeply cushioned, luxurious, poignantly familiar, the car, in short, that I had pursued to Bleau, and that later, in flat defiance of President Poincare or the Generalissimo of France, or whoever makes army rules and regulations, I had guided through the war zone to the castle of Prezelay.

As the chauffeur halted it near the pavilion, it disgorged three occupants, one of who, a young officer, slender of form and gracefully alert of movement, wore the dark-blue uniform of the French Flying Corps.  I knew him only too well.  It was Jean-Herve-Marie-Olivier.  But the glance I gave him was most cursory; my attention was focused hungrily on the two ladies in the tonneau.  They had risen and were divesting themselves in leisurely fashion of a most complicated arrangement of motor coats and veils.

From these swathing disguises there first emerged, as if from a chrysalis, a black-clad, distinguished-looking young woman whom I had never seen before.  However, it was the second figure, the one in the rosy veils and the tan mantle, that was exciting me.  Off came her wrappings, and I saw a girl in a white gown and a flowered hat—­the loveliest girl on earth.

I did not stand on the order of my going.  I rocked perilously, and my crutches made a furious clatter, but I was outside in a truly infinitesimal space of time.  Yes; there they were, chatting with Dunny, who had hurried to meet them.  And at sight of me the Firefly of France ran forward with hands extended, greeting me as if I were his oldest friend, his brother, his dearest comrade in arms.

I took his hands and I pressed them with what show of warmth I could summon.  It was as peasant as a bit of torture, but it had to be gone through.  Then I stared past him toward the ladies, who were coming up with Dunny; and except for that girl in white, I saw nothing in all the world.

“Monsieur,” the duke was saying, “I pay you my first visit.  Only my weakness has prevented me from sooner welcoming to Raincy-la-Tour so honored a guest.”

He turned to the lady who stood beside Miss Falconer, a slender, dark-eyed, gracious young woman wearing a simple black gown and a black hat and a string of pearls.

“Here is another,” said the Firefly, “who has come to welcome you.  Oh, yes, Monsieur, you must know, and you must count henceforth as your friends in any need, even to the death, all those who bear the name of Raincy-la-Tour.  Permit that I present you to my wife, who is of your country.”

“Jean’s wife is my sister, Mr. Bayne,” Miss Falconer said.

CHAPTER XXVI