Her very last bit of jewelry, a
gift from her father on the Christmas before he died, had been sold to
purchase the lace scarf which had come that morning in Philippe's name.
Of all this Cecile was thinking as she paced the veranda that summer
night. It had all been very hard to bear but it was as nothing compared
with that last blow which had fallen two nights ago.
She had been to the town for necessary supplies and was returning rather
late in the evening. The road was lonely, deserted, and she could not
suppress the cry of fright which rose to her lips as a man sprang from a
little thicket which she was passing and stood directly before her,
barring her path. Her second cry was one, not of fear, but of startled
recognition. The man was Philippe, no longer her handsome Philippe, but
a ragged, wild-eyed, desperate man. His story was told in a few words.
He had grown restive under the confinement of prison life, then frantic,
simply frantic, and had made up his mind to escape. How, he did not
know, but he schemed and planned and watched his chance and finally
succeeded in getting away. He had managed to make his way to her, and
now she must give him money to enable him to get out of the country.
Money? Where was she to find money to give him?
"But you must, Cecile; you must give me every cent you can lay hands
on," he had cried savagely.
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