“Why did you not come last night?” he asked. “I am left alone to contend against one difficulty on the top of another. Read that!”
He drew from his pocket a thin and somewhat crumpled sheet of paper, upon which there were two columns of printed matter.
“That,” he said, “cost us two thousand francs.” The Vicomte d'Audierne read the printed matter carefully from beginning to end. He had approached the window because the light was bad, and when he finished he looked up for a few minutes, out of the little casement, upon the quiet village scene.
“The Beacon,” he said, turning round, “what is that?”
“A leading weekly newspaper.”
“Published—?
“To-day,” snapped Signor Bruno.
The Vicomte d'Audierne made a little grimace.
“Who wrote this?” he inquired.
“Christian Vellacott, son of the Vellacott, whom you knew in the old days.”