I told him how I had met them that night in Canada, and what came
of it.

"They are a cruel people, the English," said he. "I am afraid to
find them will be a matter of great difficulty."

"But the letter--"

"Ah, the letter," he interrupted, feeling in his pocket. "The
letter is not much. It is from Tiptoes--from Louison. It was
mailed this side of the river at Morristown. You shall see; they
do not know where they are."

He handed me the letter. I read it with an eagerness I could not
conceal. It went as follows:--


"MY DEAR COUNT: If this letter reaches you, it will, I hope,
relieve your anxiety. We are alive and well, but where? I am sure
I have no better idea than if I were a baby just born. We came
here with our eyes covered after a long ride from the river, which
we crossed in the night. I think it must have taken us three days
to come here. We are shut up in a big house with high walls and
trees and gardens around it--a beautiful place. We have fine beds
and everything to eat, only we miss the bouillabaisse, and the
jokes of M. Pidgeon, and the fine old claret. A fat Englishwoman
who waddles around like a big goose and who calls me Mumm (as if I
were a wine-maker!) waits upon us. We do not know the name of our
host. He is a tall man who says little and has hair on his neck