He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. In a few seconds, the shutter flew open,—then the window,—and they were in the room. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. ’ The crack in the iron front widened a little, and the general was obliged to clamp his jaws tight against the rise of a pain too well remembered.
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