"Brillon," he said, "I'm in sight of home."

The half-breed cocked his head. It was the first time that Belward had
called him "Brillon"--he had ever been "Jacques." This was to be a part
of the new life. They were not now hunting elk, riding to "wipe out" a
camp of Indians or navvies, dining the owner of a rancho or a deputation
from a prairie constituency in search of a member, nor yet with a senator
at Washington, who served tea with canvas-back duck and tooth-picks with
dessert. Once before had Jacques seen this new manner--when Belward
visited Parliament House at Ottawa, and was presented to some notable
English people, visitors to Canada. It had come to these notable folk
that Mr. Gaston Belward had relations at Ridley Court, and that of itself
was enough to command courtesy. But presently, they who would be
gracious for the family's sake, were gracious for the man's. He had that
which compelled interest--a suggestive, personal, distinguished air.
Jacques knew his master better than any one else knew him; and yet he
knew little, for Belward was of those who seem to give much confidence,
and yet give little--never more than he wished.

"Yes, monsieur, in sight of home," Jacques replied, with a dry cadence.

"Say 'sir,' not 'monsieur,' Brillon; and from the time we enter the Court
yonder, look every day and every hour as you did when the judge asked you
who killed Tom Daly."

Jacques winced, but nodded his head. Belward continued:

"What you hear me tell is what you can speak of; otherwise you are blind
and dumb. You understand?" Jacques's face was sombre, but he said
quickly: "Yes--sir."