in gait, came from the interior of a "shelter"
that stood a little to the right of Medenham's position on the rails.

"Hello, Marigny," said he jauntily.

The Count looked back towards the hotel. His tubby acquaintance
chuckled. The effort squeezed an eyeglass out of his right eye.

"Aie pas peur, mon vieux!" cried he in very colloquial French. "My
mother sent a note to say that the fair Cynthia has retired to her
room to write letters. I have been waiting here ten minutes."

Now, it chanced that Medenham's widespread touring in France had
rubbed up his knowledge of the language. It is ever the ear that needs
training more than the tongue, and in all likelihood he would not have
caught the exact meaning of the words were it not for the hap of
recent familiarity with the accents of all sorts and conditions of
French-speaking folk.

"Jimmy Devar!" he breathed, and his amazement lost him Marigny's
muttered answer.

But he heard Devar's confident outburst as the two walked off together
in the direction of the West Pier.

"You are growing positively nervous, my dear Edouard. And why? The
affair arranges itself admirably. I shall be always on hand, ready to
turn up exactly at the right moment. What the deuce, this is the luck
of a lifetime...."

The squeaky, high-pitched voice--a masculine variant of Mrs. Devar's
ultra-fashionable intonation--died away midst the chatter and laughter
of other promenaders. Medenham's first impulse was to follow and
listen, since Devar had yielded to the common delusion of imagining
that none except his companion on the sea-front that night understood
a foreign language. But he swept the notion aside ere it had well
presented itself as a means of solving an astounding puzzle.

"No, dash it all, I'm not a private detective," he muttered angrily.
"Why should I interfere? Confound Simmonds, and d----n that railway
van! I have a good mind to hand the car over to Dale in the morning
and return to town by the first train."

If he really meant what he said he ought to have gone back to his
hotel, played billiards for an hour, and sought his bedroom with an
easy conscience. He was debating the point when the conceit intruded
itself that Cynthia's pretty head was at that moment bent over a
writing-table in a certain well-lighted corner apartment of the second
floor, so he compromised with his half-formed intent, whisked round to
face the sea again, and lighted another cigarette from the glow