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Updated: May 25, 2025
John Turner, laboriously putting two small numerals together, after his manner, had concluded that Loo Barebone was the reason. Even banking may, it seems, be carried on without the loss of all human weakness, especially if the banker be of middle age, unmarried, and deprived by an unromantic superfluity of adipose tissue of the possibility of living through a romance of his own.
"There is no knowing," admitted Colville, with his air of suppressing a half-developed yawn, "but I think we know, all the same you and I, Marquis. And there is no hurry." After three days Loo Barebone had still given no answer.
There were many reasons why the Marquis de Gemosac had yielded to Colville's contention that the time had not yet come for Loo Barebone to be his guest at the chateau. "He is inclined to be indolent," Colville had whispered. "One recognises, in many traits of character, the source from whence his blood is drawn.
The Marquis de Gemosac, who was sitting in the background, gave a sharp little exclamation of surprise when Barebone stepped ashore, and turned to Dormer Colville to say in an undertone: "Ah but you need say nothing." "I promised you," answered Colville, carelessly, "that I should tell you nothing till you had seen him."
The water was smooth enough under the lee of "The Last Hope," which, being deeply laden, lay motionless at her anchor, with the stream rustling past her cables. "Stand up, mademoiselle," said Barebone, himself balanced on the after-thwart. "Hold on to me, thus, and when I let you go, let yourself go." There was no time to protest or to ask questions.
For Septimus Marvin knew that Colville, in the name of the Marquis de Gemosac, had asked Loo Barebone to go to France and institute proceedings there to recover a great heritage, which it seemed must be his. And Barebone had laughed and put off his reply from day to day for three days.
He had come on board merely to greet his old friends, to hear some news of home, to take up for a moment that old self of bygone days and drop it again. And now, in half a dozen questions and answers, whither was he drifting? Captain Clubbe filled in a word, slowly and very legibly. "But I am not the man, you know," said Barebone, slowly.
And they watched, in a sudden silence, the sail pass down the river toward the quay. The tide was ebbing still when Barebone loosed his boat, one night, from the grimy steps leading from the garden of Maiden's Grave farm down to the creek. It was at the farm-house that Captain Clubbe now lived when on shore.
Barebone made no answer to this dark suggestion of a sprightly past. The present darkness and the coming storm commanded his full attention. In the breathless silence, Juliette and Marie and behind them, Jean, panting beneath the luggage balanced on his shoulder could hear the wet rope slipping through his fingers and, presently, the bump of the heavy boat against the timber of the steps.
He wore the same coat and hat, but a different face looked out from the sheep-skin collar turned up to the ears. There was no one in the court-yard to notice this trifling change. Barebone was not even looking out of the window. He had never glanced at the cabman's face, whose vehicle had happened to be lingering at the corner of the Ruelle St.
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