“Indeed I shall not, Monsieur,” I answered.

“It is strange,” he said abruptly, “it is strange that this gentleman and his wife should likewise have had letters to us from Monsieur Gratiot.  They came from St. Louis, and they were on their way to Paris.”

“To Paris?” I cried; “what was their name?”

He looked at me in surprise.

“Clive,” he said.

“Clive!” I cried, leaning towards him in my saddle.  “Clive!  And what became of them?”

This time he gave me one of his searching looks, and it was not unmixed with astonishment.

“Why do you ask.  Monsieur?” he demanded.  “Did you know them?”

I must have shown that I was strangely agitated.  For the moment I could not answer.

“Monsieur Gratiot himself spoke of them to me,” I said, after a little; “he said they were an interesting couple.”

“Pardieu!” exclaimed Monsieur de St. Gre, “he put it mildly.”  He gave me another look.  “There was something about them, Monsieur, which I could not fathom.  Why were they drifting?  They were people of quality who had seen the world, who were by no means paupers, who had no cause to travel save a certain restlessness.  And while they were awaiting the sailing of the packet for France they came to our house—­the old one in the Rue Bourbon that was burned.  I would not speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Clive I did not like.  He fell sick of the fever in my house, and it was there that Antoinette and Madame de St. Gre took turns with his wife in watching at his bedside.  I could do nothing with Antoinette, Monsieur, and she would not listen to my entreaties, my prayers, my commands.  We buried the poor fellow in the alien ground, for he did not die in the Church, and after that my daughter clung to Mrs. Clive.  She would not let her go, and the packet sailed without her.  I have never seen such affection.  I may say,” he added quickly, “that Madame de St. Gre and I share in it, for Mrs. Clive is a lovable woman and a strong character.  And into the great sorrow that lies behind her life, we have never probed.”

“And she is with you now, Monsieur?” I asked.

“She lives with us, Monsieur,” he answered simply, “and I hope for always.  No,” he said quickly, “it is not charity,—­she has something of her own.  We love her, and she is the best of companions for my daughter.  For the rest, Monsieur, she seems benumbed, with no desire to go back or to go farther.”

An entrance drive to the plantation of Les Iles, unknown to Nick and me, led off from the main road like a green tunnel arched out of the forest.  My feelings as we entered this may be imagined, for I was suddenly confronted with the situation which I had dreaded since my meeting with Nick at Jonesboro.  I could scarcely allow myself even the faint hope that Mrs. Clive might not prove to be Mrs. Temple after all.  Whilst I was in this agony of doubt and indecision, the drive