The Wild Geese. Weyman Stanley John

did not see the Colonel at once, but the latter rose and bowed, and Marsh, a little added colour in his face, returned the salute – with an indifferent grace. It was clear that, though he had behaved better than his fellows on the previous day, he had no desire to push the acquaintance farther.

      Colonel John, however, gave him no chance. Still standing, and with a grave, courteous face, "May I, as a stranger," he said, "trouble you with a question, sir?"

      The two lady-killers at the window heard the words and nudged one another, with a stifled chuckle at their comrade's predicament. Captain Marsh, with one eye on them, assented stiffly.

      "Is there any one," the Colonel asked, "in Tralee – I fear the chance is small – who gives fencing lessons? – or who is qualified to do so?"

      The Captain's look of surprise yielded to one of pitying comprehension. He smiled – he could not help it; while the young men drew in their heads to hear the better.

      "Yes," he answered, "there is."

      "In the regiment, I presume?"

      "He is attached to it temporarily. If you will inquire at the Armoury for Lemoine, the Maître d'Armes, he will oblige you, I have no doubt. But – "

      "If you please?" the Colonel said politely, seeing that Marsh hesitated.

      "If you are not a skilled swordsman, I fear that it is not one lesson, or two, or a dozen, will enable you to meet Captain Payton, if you have such a thing in your mind, sir. He is but little weaker than Lemoine, and Lemoine is a fair match with a small-sword for any man out of London. Brady in Dublin, possibly, and perhaps half a dozen in England are his betters, but – " he stopped abruptly, his ear catching a snigger at the window. "I need not trouble you with that," he concluded lamely.

      "Still," the Colonel answered simply, "a long reach goes for much, I have heard, and I am tall."

      Captain Marsh looked at him in pity, and he might have put his compassion into words, but for the young bloods at the window, who, he knew, would repeat the conversation. He contented himself, therefore, with saying rather curtly, "I believe it goes some way." And he turned stiffly to go out.

      But the Colonel had a last question to put to him. "At what hour," he asked, "should I be most likely to find this – Lemoine, at leisure?"

      "Lemoine?"

      "If you please."

      Marsh opened his mouth to answer, but found himself anticipated by one of the youngsters. "Three in the afternoon is the best time," the lad said bluntly, speaking over his shoulder. He popped out his head again, that his face, swollen by his perception of the jest, might not betray it.

      But the Colonel seemed to see nothing. "I thank you," he said, bowing courteously.

      And re-seating himself, as Marsh went out, he finished his breakfast. The two at the window, after exploding once or twice in an attempt to stifle their laughter, drew in their heads, and, still red in the face, marched solemnly past the Colonel, and out of the room. His seat, now the window was clear, commanded a view of the street, and presently he saw the two young bloods go by in the company of four or five of their like. They were gesticulating, nor was there much doubt, from the laughter with which their tale was received, that they were retailing a joke of signal humour.

      That did not surprise the Colonel. But when the door opened a moment later, and Marsh came hastily into the room, and with averted face began to peer about for something, he was surprised.

      "Where the devil's that snuff-box!" the sallow-faced man exclaimed. "Left it somewhere!" Then, looking about him to make sure that the door was closed. "See, here sir," he said awkwardly, "it's no business of mine, but for a man who has served as you say you have, you're a d – d simple fellow. Take my advice and don't go to Lemoine's at three, if you go at all."

      "No?" the Colonel echoed.

      "Can't you see they'll all be there to guy you?" Marsh retorted impatiently. He could not help liking the man, and yet the man seemed a fool! The next moment, with a hasty nod, he was gone. He had found the box in his pocket.

      Colonel Sullivan smiled, and, after carefully brushing the crumbs from his breeches, rose from the table. "A good man," he muttered. "Pity he has not more courage." The next moment he came to attention, for slowly past the window moved Captain Payton himself, riding Flavia's mare, and talking with one of the young bloods who walked at his stirrup.

      The man and the horse! The Colonel began to understand that something more than wantonness had inspired Payton's conduct the previous night. Either he had been privy from the first to the plot to waylay the horse; or he had bought it cheaply knowing how it had been acquired; or – a third alternative – it had been placed in his hands, to the end that his reputation as a fire-eater might protect it. In any event, he had had an interest in nipping inquiry in the bud; and, learning who the Colonel was, had acted on the instant, and with considerable presence of mind.

      The Colonel looked thoughtful; and though the day was fine for Ireland – that is, no more than a small rain was falling – he remained within doors until five minutes before three o'clock. Bale had employed the interval in brushing the stains of travel from his master's clothes, and combing his horseman's wig with particular care; so that it was a neat and spruce gentleman who at five minutes before three walked through Tralee, and, attending to the directions he had received, approached a particular door, a little within the barrack gate.

      Had he glanced up at the windows he would have seen faces at them; moreover, a suspicious ear might have caught, as he paused on the threshold, a scurrying of feet, mingled with stifled laughter. But he did not look up. He did not seem to expect to see more than he found, when he entered – a great bare room with its floor strewn with sawdust and its walls adorned here and there by a gaunt trophy of arms. In the middle of the floor, engaged apparently in weighing one foil against another, was a stout, dark-complexioned man, whose light and nimble step, as he advanced to meet his visitor, gave the lie to his weight.

      Certainly there came from a half-opened door at the end of the room a stealthy sound as of rats taking cover. But Colonel John did not look that way. His whole attention was bent upon the Maître d'Armes, who bowed low to him. Clicking his heels together, and extending his palms in the French fashion, "Good-morning, sare," he said, his southern accent unmistakable. "I make you welcome."

      The Colonel returned his salute less elaborately. "The Maître d'Armes Lemoine?" he said.

      "Yes, sare, that is me. At your service!"

      "I am a stranger in Tralee, and I have been recommended to apply to you. You are, I am told, accustomed to give lessons."

      "With the small-sword?" the Frenchman answered, with the same gesture of the open hands. "It is my profession."

      "I am desirous of brushing up my knowledge – such as it is."

      "A vare good notion," the fencing-master replied, his black beady eyes twinkling. "Vare good for me. Vare good also for you. Always ready, is the gentleman's motto; and to make himself ready, his high recreation. But, doubtless, sare," with a faint smile, "you are proficient, and I teach you nothing. You come but to sweat a little." An observant person would have noticed that as he said this he raised his voice above his usual tone.

      "At one time," Colonel John replied with simplicity, "I was fairly proficient. Then – this happened!" He held out his right hand. "You see?"

      "Ah!" the Frenchman said in a low tone, and he raised his hands. "That is ogly! That is vare ogly! Can you hold with that?" he added, inspecting the hand with interest. He was a different man.

      "So, so," the Colonel answered cheerfully.

      "Not strongly, eh? It is not possible."

      "Not very strongly," the Colonel assented. His hand, like Bale's, lacked two fingers.

      Lemoine muttered something under his breath, and looked at the Colonel with a wrinkled brow. "Tut – tut!" he said, "and how long are you like that, sare?"

      "Seven years."

      "Pity! pity!" Lemoine exclaimed. Again he looked at his visitor with perplexed eyes. After which, "Dam!" he said suddenly.

      The