en Hunterleys asked for the bill and rose.

"I will take you round to the Club and get your _carte_," he suggested.
"Afterwards, we can spend the afternoon as you choose."

The two men strolled out of the place. It was not until after they had
left the arcade and were actually in the street, that Hunterleys gripped
his companion's arm.

"Simpson," he declared, "the fates have been kind to us. Douaille has a
fit of the nerves. He will go no more to the Villa Mimosa. Seeking about
for the safest meeting-place, Grex has given us a chance. The only one
of his servants who belongs to us is commissioned to hire a yacht on
which they meet to-night."

"A yacht," Mr. Simpson replied, emptily.

"I have a friend," Hunterleys continued, "an American. I am convinced
that he will lend me his yacht, which is lying in the harbour here. We
are going to try and exchange. If we succeed, I shall have the run of
the boat. The crew will be at our command, and I shall get to that
conference myself, somehow or other."

Mr. Simpson felt himself left behind. He could only stare at his
companion.

"Tell me, Sir Henry," he begged, almost pathetically, "have I walked
into an artificial world? Do you mean to tell me seriously that you, a
Member of Parliament, an ex-Minister, are engaged upon a scheme to get
the Grand Duke Augustus and Douaille and Selingman on board a yacht, and
that you are going to be there, concealed, turned into a spy? I can't
keep up with it. As fiction it seems to me to be in the clouds. As
truth, why, my understanding turns and mocks me. You are talking
fairy-tales."

Hunterleys smiled tolerantly.

"The man in the street knows very little of the real happenings in
life," he pronounced. "The truth has a queer way sometimes of spreading
itself out into the realms of fiction. Come across here with me to the
hotel. I have got to move heaven and earth to find my friend."

"Do with me as you like," Mr. Simpson sighed resignedly. "In a plain
political discussion, or an argument with Monsieur Douaille--well, I am
ready to bear my part. But this sort of thing lifts me off my feet. I
can only trot along at your heels."

They entered the Hotel de Paris. Hunterleys made a few breathless
enquiries. Nothing, alas! was known of Mr. Richard Lane. He came back,
frowning, to the steps of the hotel.

"If he is up playing golf at La Turbie," Hunterleys muttered, "we shall
barely have time."

A reception clerk tapped him on the s