“No.”
“Nor still American. I think you must be——”
“French? Well, you are right, madam. I am Henri Clairvaux, of Paris. Think not I am curious or prying. These questions I have asked merely the time to pass. I am walking through Scotland, but the weather is getting too cold, and I soon shall depart for the south. In winter I much prefer Italy to your bleak north country here.”
At this the widow bridled a bit.
“Scotland alwa’ ha’ been guide enow fa me!” she exclaimed. “I ha’ took notice it is alwa’ th’ weak that prefer the warm countries i’ th’ winter. I ha’ been thinkin’ ma’hap it wud be well fa th’ young man upstair to go south fa th’ winter time.”
Outside the door there was rustling. The door was opened and a musical, feminine voice called to the widow.
The man in the cloak had his back toward the door, and he did not move.
Excusing herself, the landlady hurried from the room. The moment she was gone the stranger picked up his hat and gloves and hastily rose.
“It is well enough that she should not see me now,” he muttered. “I must get out at once.”
He clapped his hat on his head and pulled it hard down, taking pains to make the limber brim lap over his face. Then he swiftly crossed the room to the door, buttoning his cloak over his breast.