One evening I returned to find a big van from Dives, the nearest railway station, drawn up in the courtyard at the foot of the stairs leading to the gallery, and all of the people of the inn, from Madame Brossard (who directed) to Glouglou (who madly attempted the heaviest pieces), busily installing trunks, bags, and packing-cases in the suite engaged for the “great man of science” on the second floor of the east wing of the building.  Neither the great man nor his companion was to be seen, however, both having retired to their rooms immediately upon their arrival—­so Amedee informed me, as he wiped his brow after staggering up the steps under a load of books wrapped in sacking.

I made my evening ablutions removing a Joseph’s coat of dust and paint; and came forth from my pavilion, hoping that Professor Keredec and his friend would not mind eating in the same garden with a man in a corduroy jacket and knickerbockers; but the gentlemen continued invisible to the public eye, and mine was the only table set for dinner in the garden.  Up-stairs the curtains were carefully drawn across all the windows of the east wing; little leaks of orange, here and there, betraying the lights within.  Glouglou, bearing a tray of covered dishes, was just entering the salon of the “Grande Suite,” and the door closed quickly after him.

“It is to be supposed that Professor Keredec and his friend are fatigued with their journey from Paris?” I began, a little later.

“Monsieur, they did not seem fatigued,” said Amedee.

“But they dine in their own rooms to-night.”

“Every night, monsieur.  It is the order of Professor Keredec.  And with their own valet-de-chambre to serve them.  Eh?” He poured my coffee solemnly.  “That is mysterious, to say the least, isn’t it?”

“To say the very least,” I agreed.

“Monsieur the professor is a man of secrets, it appears,” continued Amedee.  “When he wrote to Madame Brossard engaging his rooms, he instructed her to be careful that none of us should mention even his name; and to-day when he came, he spoke of his anxiety on that point.”

“But you did mention it.”

“To whom, monsieur?” asked the old fellow blankly.

“To me.”

“But I told him I had not,” said Amedee placidly.  “It is the same thing.”

“I wonder,” I began, struck by a sudden thought, “if it will prove quite the same thing in my own case.  I suppose you have not mentioned the circumstance of my being here to your friend, Jean Ferret of Quesnay?”

He looked at me reproachfully.  “Has monsieur been troubled by the people of the chateau?”

“‘Troubled’ by them?”

“Have they come to seek out monsieur and disturb him?  Have they done anything whatever to show that they have heard monsieur is here?”

“No, certainly they haven’t,” I was obliged to retract at once.  “I beg your pardon, Amedee.”

“Ah, monsieur!” He made a deprecatory bow (which plunged me still deeper in shame), struck a match, and offered a light for my cigar with a forgiving hand.  “All the same,” he pursued, “it seems very mysterious—­ this Keredec affair!”