Nex'
morning the Baron found it open, and, Jeeroosalem! I never seen a man
git so mad."
"And that's all?"
"That's all, but me an' the Baron ain't speakin'."
We promised to do what we could, more, it must be confessed, on the
Baron's account than for the sake of old man Dumble. Accordingly, we
tried to persuade the Baron that his secret at any rate was still
inviolate. He listened incredulously.
"He says he saw nothing--but some pictures and old furniture."
"_Mon Dieu!_ an' zey tell 'im nossing. _Saperlipopette!_
Come wiz me. I can trust you. You shall know my secret, too."
We followed him in silence up the path which led to the bungalow, and
into the house. The Baron unlocked a door and unbolted some shutters.
We saw two portraits, splendid portraits of two handsome young men in
uniform. Above the mantelpiece hung an emblazoned pedigree: the
family tree of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy, peers of France. The Baron laid
a lean finger upon one of the names.
"I am Rene de Bourgueil-Crotanoy," he said.
We waited. When he spoke again his voice had changed. It was the voice
of a very old man, tired out, indifferent, poignantly feeble.
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