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Updated: May 11, 2025
Even while I lay recovering my health, Jerome and I were busy with our plans. Not the least unforeseen item in what had befallen, was the chance that carried me into a house where I saw again the "black wolf's head," which brought once more to mind the history of the d'Artins.
Assuredly not by the way I entered. Looking about more carefully to note the different means of egress, my attention was attracted by a carven shield above the main door. The arms were the same as those graven on the locket shown me by Colonel d'Ortez the night I left Biloxi. There, standing out boldly above the door, was the same sable wolf, the crest of the d'Artins.
Even at such a time I noted the device upon a ring she wore, a device grown so familiar: A wolf's head, sable. "An old thing of my mother's," she explained, "Charles has one, and I." I eagerly seized upon a subject which might so naturally prolong our interview. "Aye, I know the device well; are you of the d'Artins?" "Yes, my mother was; there are now none of the race.
"Aye," he mused half coherently, "the wolf; 'tis the crest of the d'Artins, quartered with those of many of the most ancient houses of France. So do those arms appear to men. But see." He took the locket quickly from me and with a swift forceful movement turned the plate in its place, exposing the reverse side. "What is this? Look!"
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