"I am afraid," he remarked, after a few moments of silence, "that I
shall be a little unpopular with Mr. Fentolin. Perhaps I ought to
have written first, but then, of course, I had no idea that any one
was making use of the place."

"I do not understand," she said, "how you can possibly expect to
come down like this and live there, without any preparation."

"Why not?"

"You haven't any servants nor any furniture nor things to cook with."

He laughed.

"Oh! I am an old campaigner," he assured her. "I meant to pick up
a few oddments in the village. I don't suppose I shall stay very
long, anyhow, but I thought I'd like to have a look at the place.
By-the-by, what sort of a man is Mr. Fentolin?"

Again there was that curious expression in her eyes, an expression
almost of secret terror, this time not wholly concealed. He could
have sworn that her hands were cold.

"He met with an accident many years ago," she said slowly. "Both
his legs were amputated. He spends his life in a little carriage
which he wheels about himself."

"Poor fellow!" Hamel exclaimed, with a strong man's ready sympathy
for suffering. "That is just as much as I have heard about him.