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At last Lacaze decided to go himself. He rose, sought for his hat, chucked her under the chin and left the room.

Madeleine thrust the letter into her dress and thanked God.

Then the door opened and her husband put in his head.

“I quite forgot,” he said, smiling. “What does young Jean have to say?”

His wife took the letter from her bosom and gave it into his hand.

He read it deliberately. At length—

“Poor René,” he said gaily. “So I put a spoke in his wheel. Dear, dear. We must try to make up for it. I seem to remember him faintly—a calf with curly fair hair. ‘66 rue Castetnau.’ Good.” He handed the letter back. “We’ll call there next Sunday morning. The better the day, sweeting, the better the deed. ‘Lonely.’ Poor clod, what a shame! But for Lacaze, the steeple-jack, he might have been watching your pink little hands ladle cream into pots, while he counted the takings and gave out the change. Certainly we must make up for it—so far as we can....”

He sighed and went out.

As he closed the door, his eyes lighted. He walked down the passage thoughtfully, licking his lips....