two letters," said Pierre.

"How do you remember so?"

Pierre shrugged a shoulder again. "It is easy with things like that."

"But word for word?"

"I learned it word for word."

"Now for the story of the Lake--if you won't tell me the name of the
man."

"The name afterwards-perhaps. Well, he came to that farthest corner of
the pasturage, to the Hudson's Bay country, two hundred years ago. What
do you think? Was he so sick of all, that he would go so far he could
never get back? Maybe those 'cheerful doings' at Highgate, eh? And the
lady--who can tell?"

Tybalt seized Pierre's arm. "You know more. Damnation, can't you see I'm
on needles to hear? Was there anything in the letters about the lady?
Anything more than you've told?"

Pierre liked no man's hand on him. He glanced down at the eager fingers,
and said coldly:

"You are a great man; you can tell a story in many ways, but I in one way
alone, and that is my way--mais oui!"

"Very well, take your own time."