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. “‘Go it, missie,’ they said; “kick aht!’ “I swore at that policeman—and disgusted him. " "How had he offended you?" inquired the widow. Ah! what's that?" he exclaimed, as some one brushed hastily past him. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting.
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