“Run to earth!” she cried, advancing a step to meet me.

“A pretty poor trophy of the chase,” said I, “but proud that you are its killer.”

To my surprise and mystification, her cheeks and brow flushed rosily; she was obviously conscious of it, and laughed.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said.

“I!”

“Yes, you, poor man!  I suppose I couldn’t have more thoroughly compromised you.  Madame Brossard will never believe in your respectability again.”

“Oh, yes, she will,” said I.

“What?  A lodger who has ladies calling upon him at five o’clock in the morning?  But your bundle’s on your shoulder,” she rattled on, laughing, “though there’s many could be bolder, and perhaps you’ll let me walk a bit of the way with you, if you’re for the road.”

“Perhaps I will,” said I. She caught up her riding-skirt, fastening it by a clasp at her side, and we passed out through the archway and went slowly along the road bordering the forest, her horse following obediently at half-rein’s length.

“When did you hear that I was at Madame Brossard’s?” I asked.

“Ten minutes after I returned to Quesnay, late yesterday afternoon.”

“Who told you?”

“Louise.”

I repeated the name questioningly.  “You mean Mrs. Larrabee Harman?”

“Louise Harman,” she corrected.  “Didn’t you know she was staying at Quesnay?”

“I guessed it, though Amedee got the name confused.”

“Yes, she’s been kind enough to look after the place for us while we were away.  George won’t be back for another ten days, and I’ve been overseeing an exhibition for him in London.  Afterward I did a round of visits—­tiresome enough, but among people it’s well to keep in touch with on George’s account.”

“I see,” I said, with a grimness which probably escaped her.  “But how did Mrs. Harman know that I was at Les Trois Pigeons?”

“She met you once in the forest—­”

“Twice,” I interrupted.

“She mentioned only once.  Of course she’d often heard both George and me speak of you.”

“But how did she know it was I and where I was staying?”

“Oh, that?” Her smile changed to a laugh.  “Your maitre d’hotel told Ferret, a gardener at Quesnay, that you were at the inn.”

“He did!”

“Oh, but you mustn’t be angry with him; he made it quite all right.”

“How did he do that?” I asked, trying to speak calmly, though there was that in my mind which might have blanched the parchment cheek of a grand inquisitor.

“He told Ferret that you were very anxious not to have it known—­”

“You call that making it all right?”

“For himself, I mean.  He asked Ferret not to mention who it was that told him.”

“The rascal!” I cried.  “The treacherous, brazen—­”

“Unfortunate man,” said Miss Elizabeth, “don’t you see how clear you’re making it that you really meant to hide from us?”