THE AMERICAN
dation by the loss of his wits. In the latter case, just now, he felt little more tenderly to the foolish old man than in the former. Responsible or not, he was equally an accomplice of his pestilent daughter. Newman was going to leave him abruptly when his face gave out a peculiar convulsion. "Are you going away?" he appealed.
"Do you want me to stay?"
"I should have left you—from consideration. But my dignity suffers at your leaving me—that way."
"Have you anything particular to say to me?"
M. Nioche looked round to see no one was listening, and then returned with mild portentousness: "Je ne lui ai pas trouvé d'excuses." Newman gave a short laugh, but the old man seemed for the moment not to heed; he was gazing away, absently, at some metaphysical image of his implacability. "It does n't much matter whether you have or not," said Newman. "There are other people who never will, I assure you."
"What has she done?" M. Nioche vaguely enquired, turning round again. "I don't know what she does, you know."
"She has done a devilish mischief; it does n't matter what. She's a public nuisance; she ought to be stopped."
M. Nioche stealthily put out his hand and laid it on Newman's arm. "Stopped, yes," he concurred. "That's it. Stopped short. She's running away—she must be stopped." Then he paused and again looked round him. "I mean to stop her," he went on. "I'm only waiting for my chance."
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