I am going away . . . good-bye!'


He had a good voice. When the last note had floated away I
remounted, but there was a charm in the spot, something particular
and individual because while we were looking at it before turning
our horses' heads away the singer said: 'I wonder what is the name
of this place,' and the other man remarked: 'Why, there is no
village here,' and the first one insisted: 'No, I mean this spot,
this very place.' The wounded trooper decided that it had no name
probably. But he was wrong. It had a name. The hill, or the
rock, or the wood, or the whole had a name. I heard of it by
chance later. It was--Lastaola."

A cloud of tobacco smoke from Mills' pipe drove between my head and
the head of Mr. Blunt, who, strange to say, yawned slightly. It
seemed to me an obvious affectation on the part of that man of
perfect manners, and, moreover, suffering from distressing
insomnia.

"This is how we first met and how we first parted," he said in a
weary, indifferent tone. "It's quite possible that she did see her
uncle on the way. It's perhaps on this occasion that she got her
sister to come out of the wilderness. I have no doubt she had a
pass from the French Government giving her the completest freedom
of action. She must have got it in Paris before leaving."

Mr. Blunt broke out into worldly, slightly cynical smiles.

"She can get anything she likes in Paris. She could get a whole