"The Counts d'Artin have been a proud race in France for centuries, yet I, the last d'Artin, find the name too great a burden to bear with me in shameful silence to my grave. See this," and he took from his throat a pearl-studded locket, swung by a substantial golden chain, which he opened and handed to me. Inside were the arms of a noble family exquisitely blazoned upon a silver shield.
"What is it; what device is there?"
"What is it; what device is there?"
I knew something of heraldry and read aloud without hesitation the bearings upon the shield, prominent among which were three wolves' heads, chevroned, supported by two black wolves, rampant, the coronet and motto "Praeclare factum."
"Aye," he mused half coherently, "the wolf; 'tis the crest of the d'Artins, quartered with those of many of the most ancient houses of France. So do those arms appear to men. But see."
He took the locket quickly from me and with a swift forceful movement turned the plate in its place, exposing the reverse side.
"What is this? Look!"
I glanced at it and started, looking inquiringly into my old friend's face. He avoided my eye.