THE AMERICAN
spot then you did n't happen to meet M. de Bellegarde—also taking it all in? I'm told his sister's course does n't suit him the least little bit."
Newman had a moment's gravity of silence. No, luckily—I did n't meet either of them. In that case I might have fired.
"Ah, it is n't that they've not been keeping quiet," she said; "I mean in the country, at—what's the name of the place?—Fleurières. They returned there at the time you left Paris, and have been spending the year far from human eye. The little Marquise must enjoy it; I expect to hear she has eloped with her daughter's music-master!"
Newman had gazed at the light wood-fire, and he listened to this with an apparent admission of its relevance; but he spoke in another sense. I mean never to mention the name of those people again and I don't want to hear anything more about them." Then he took out his pocket-book and drew forth a scrap of paper. He looked at it an instant, after which he got up and stood by the fire. "I'm going to burn them up. I'm glad to have you as a witness. There they go!" And he tossed the paper into the flame.
Mrs. Tristram sat with her embroidery-needle suspended. "What in the world is that?"
Leaning against the chimney-piece he seemed to grasp its ledge with force and to draw his breath awhile in pain. But presently he said: "I can tell you now. It was a proof of a great infamy on the part of the Bellegardes—something that would damn them if ever known."
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