As he did so, a hand appeared on the windowsill, and a face followed the hand.
"Ha! Nicolas Lavilette, is that you?
So, you know my leetla whistle again!" Nicolas's brow darkened.

In old days he and this same Vanne Castine had been in many a scrape together, and Vanne, the elder, had always borne the responsibility of their adventures.

Nicolas had had enough of those old days; other ambitions and habits governed him now.

He was not exactly the man to go back on a friend, but Castine no longer had any particular claims to friendship.

The last time he had heard Vanne's whistle was a night five years before, when they both joined a gang of river-drivers, and made a raid on some sham American speculators and surveyors and labourers, who were exploiting an oil-well on the property of the old seigneur.