Just then the farmer turned abruptly to him: "A good thing you were passing near at the time of the accident. I might have been drowned," he said.
"I am very glad of having been of service to you," answered Frank.
"You're a good fellow," resumed the farmer looking at him and nodding. "It's not everybody," he continued, "who would have had the sense to do as you have done."
They arrived at the farm-house, a two-storeyed house, without any pretence at architecture, and with a slate covering: the house was surrounded by stables, pig-sties, a small garden and a conservatory. In front of the house was a parterre, most tastefully arranged with flowers which surrounded an immense fuschia, five feet in height and covering an area of about fifty square feet.
The two men entered by the front door. Mr. Rougeant led his rescuer into the kitchen. Here was Jeanne, a French servant, occupied in poking the fire.
"Ah, but dear me," she exclaimed as she caught sight of the pair, "what has Mr. Rougeant been doing now?"
"I fell in the quarry," said the farmer gruffly, "go and prepare some dry clothing, be quick, make haste."
Jeanne immediately did as she was bid. She did not leave the room, however, without casting an inquisitive glance at Frank.
"Adèle," shouted Mr. Rougeant in a voice of thunder, "where are you?"
"Miss Rougeant is gone, she told me she would not be long," answered the servant from upstairs.