"The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. ” There was never any shortage of bad men to eat, especially with pestilence and superstition to cover their tracks. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. The carpenter did not hesitate a moment. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen.
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