had put into his hands
a weapon, and a formidable weapon, it seemed to him, but the colonel did
not care to use it. He preferred to strike with some less grimy cudgel.

Then he rang for one of the servants, questioned him, and was informed
that Mr. Charteris had gone down to the beach just after luncheon. A
moment later, Colonel Musgrave was walking through the gardens in this
direction.

As he came to the thicket which screens the beach, he called
Charteris's name loudly, in order to ascertain his whereabouts. And the
novelist's voice answered--yet not at once, but after a brief silence.
It chanced that, at this moment, Musgrave had come to a thin place in
the thicket, and could plainly see Mr. Charteris; he was concealing some
white object in the hollow of a log that lay by the river. A little
later, Musgrave came out upon the beach, and found Charteris seated upon
the same log, an open book upon his knees, and looking back over his
shoulder wonderingly.

"Oh," said John Charteris, "so it was you, Rudolph? I could not imagine
who it was that called."

"Yes--I wanted a word with you, Jack."

Now, there are five little red-and-white bath-houses upon the beach at
Matocton; the nearest of them was some thirty feet from Mr. Charteris.
It might have been either imagination or the prevalent breeze, but
Musgrave certainly thought he heard a door closing. Moreover, as he
walked around the end of the log, he glanced downward as in a casual
manner, and perceived a protrusion which bore an undeniable resemblance
to the handle of a parasol. Musgrave whistled, though, at the bottom of
his heart, he was not surprised; and then, he sat down upon the log, and
for a moment was silent.

"A beautiful evening," said Mr. Charteris.

Musgrave lighted a cigarette.

"Jack, I have something rather difficult to say to you--yes, it is
deuced difficult, and the sooner it is over the better. I--why,
confound it all, man! I want you to stop making love to my wife."

Mr. Charteris's eyebrows rose. "Really, Colonel Musgrave----." he began,
coolly.

"Now, you are about to make a scene, you know," said Musgrave, raising
his hand in protest, "and we are not here for that. We are not going to
tear any passions to tatters; we are not going to rant; we are simply
going to have a quiet and sensible talk. We don't happen to be
characters in a romance; for you aren't Lancelot, you know, and I am not
up to the part of Arthur by a great deal. I am