ebrows drew closer together in a distinct frown. After that
first shock, that queer turmoil of feeling, beyond analysis, yet having
within it some entirely unexpected constituent, she found herself
disposed to be angry. The sensation had not subsided when a moment or
two later she was conscious that the man whose coming had proved so
disturbing was standing before her.

"Good afternoon," he said, a little stiffly.

She raised her eyes. The frown was still upon her forehead, although to
a certain extent it was contradicted by a slight tremulousness of the
lips.

"Good afternoon, Henry!"

For some reason or other, further speech seemed to him a difficult
matter. He moved towards the vacant place.

"If you have no objection," he observed, as he seated himself.

She unfurled her fan--an ancient but wonderful weapon of defence. It
gave her a brief respite. Then she looked at him calmly.

"Of all places in the world," she murmured, "to meet you here!"

"Is it so extraordinary?"

"I find it so," she admitted. "You don't at all fit in, you know. A
scene like this," she added, glancing around, "would scarcely ever be
likely to attract you for its own sake, would it?"

"It doesn't particularly," he admitted.

"Then why have you come?"

He remained silent. The frown upon her forehead deepened.

"Perhaps," she went on coldly, "I can help you with your reply. You have
come because you are not satisfied with the reports of the private
detective whom you have engaged to watch me. You have come to supplement
them by your own investigation."

His frown matched hers. The coldness of his tone was rendered even more
bitter by its note of anger.

"I am surprised that you should have thought me capable of such an
action," he declared. "All I can say is that it is thoroughly in keeping
with your other suspicions of me, and that I find it absolutely
unworthy."

She laughed a little incredulously, not altogether naturally.

"My dear Henry," she protested, "I cannot flatter myself that there is
any other person in the world sufficiently interested in my movements to
have me watched."

"Are you really under the impression that that is the case?" he enquired
grimly.

"It isn't a matter of impression at all," she retorted. "It is the
truth. I was followed from London, I was watched at Cannes, I am watched
here day by day--by a little man in a brown suit and a Homburg hat, and
with a habit of lounging. He lounges under my wi