. Yes--there. I am having the owner of those broad shoulders
watched. That gendarme leaning against the pillar follows him wherever
he goes."

"Who is he?"

"That I am trying to ascertain. This much--he is an Englishman."

Mademoiselle of the Veil laughed. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but the
remembrance of a recent adventure of mine was too strong."

Maurice could not regain his interest in the scene. He strolled in and
out of the moving groups, but no bright eyes or winning smiles allured
him. Impelled by curiosity, he began to draw near the shadowed nook.
Curiosity in a journalist is innate, and time nor change can efface
it. Curiosity in those things which do not concern us is wrong. Ethics
disavows the practice, though philosophy sustains it. Perhaps in this
instance Maurice was philosophical, not ethical. Perhaps he wanted
to hear the woman's voice again, which was excusable. Perhaps it was
neither the one nor the other, but fate, which directed his footsteps.
Certain it is that the subsequent adventures would never have happened
had he gone about his business, as he should have done.

"Who is this who stares at us?" asked Beauvais, with a piercing glance
and a startled movement of his shoulders.

"A disciple of Pallas and a pupil of Mars," was the answer. "I have been
recruiting, Colonel. There is sharpness sometimes in new blades. Do not
draw him with your eyes."

The Colonel continued his scrutiny, however, and there was an ugly
droop at the corners of his mouth, though it was partly hidden under his
mustache.

Maurice, aware that he was not wanted, passed along, having in mind to
regain his former seat by the railing.

"Colonel," he mused, "your face grows more familiar every moment. It was
not associated with agreeable things. But, what were they? Hang it! you
shall have a place in my thoughts till I have successfully labeled you.
Humph! Some one seems to have appropriated my seat."

He viewed with indecision the broad back of the interloper, who at that
moment turned his head. At the sight of that bronzed profile Maurice
gave an exclamation of surprise and delight. He stepped forward and
dropped his hand on the stranger's shoulder.

"John Fitzgerald, or henceforth garlic shall be my salad!" he cried in
loud, exultant tones.

CHAPTER VII. SOME DIALOGUE, A SPRAINED ANKLE, AND SOME SOLDIERS

The stranger returned Maurice's salute with open-mouthed dismay; the
monocle fell from his eye, he g