"He is the devil in person!" I exclaimed angrily, shaking my
fist at the House of the Wolf, as I strode up and down
impatiently. "I hate him worse!"

"So do I!" said Croisette, mildly. "But that he hates us is a
matter of more importance. At any rate we will close the shoot."

"Wait a moment!" I replied, as after another volley of
complaints directed at our visitor, the lad was moving off to see
to it. "What is going on down there?"

"Upon my word, I believe he is leaving us!" Croisette rejoined
sharply.

For there was a noise of hoofs below us, clattering on the
pavement. Half-a-dozen horsemen were issuing from the House of
the Wolf, the ring of their bridles and the sound of their
careless voices coming up to us through the clear morning air
Bezers' valet, whom we knew by sight, was the last of them. He
had a pair of great saddle-bags before him, and at sight of these
we uttered a glad exclamation. "He is going!" I murmured,
hardly able to believe my eyes. "He is going after all!"

"Wait!" Croisette answered drily.

But I was right. We had not to wait long. He WAS going. In
another moment he came out himself, riding a strong iron-grey
horse: and we could see that he had holsters to his saddle. His
steward was running beside him, to take I suppose his last