ursues, his hat still
over his eyes; "but go I must, there's no alternative. And then,
perhaps, if I get a chance, I can break it to him gently--about you, you
know. I hate the thought of leaving you, and all that--nobody more; but
still, as I've told you, I'm absolutely depending upon him; the
exchequer is running low and must be replenished. Conjugal love is a
capital thing, but a fellow can't live on it. Love may come and love may
go, but board goes on forever. You'll stay here with the two Waddles, do
fancy work, read novels, and take walks, and you'll ever find the time
slipping by until I am back. You don't mind, do you, Norine?"

"How long will you be gone?" she asks, in an odd, constrained sort of
voice.

"Well, two or three weeks, perhaps. I shall have business to attend to,
and--and all that. But I'll be back at the earliest possible moment, be
sure of that."

She does not speak. She stands looking, with that white change in her
face, over the sunny sea.

"Come, Norine!" he exclaims, impatiently, "you're not going to be a
baby, I hope. If you love me, as you say you do--" She turns and looks
at him, and he alters the phrase suddenly, with an uneasy laugh. "Well,
_since_ you love me so well, Norry, you must try and have a little
common sense. Common sense and pretty girls are incompatible, I know;
but really, my dear child, you can't expect that our whole lives are to
be spent billing and cooing here. It would be very delicious, no
doubt"--a great yawn stifles his words for an instant--"but--by Jove!
who's this?"

He raises himself on his elbow, pushes back his hat, and stares hard at
an advancing figure. Norine follows his glance, and sees, stepping
rapidly over the sand, the small slim figure of a man.

"The--devil!" says Laurence Thorndyke.

He springs to his feet, and stands waiting. The man advances, comes
near, lifts his hat to the lady, and looks with a calm glance of
recognition at the gentleman. He is a pale, thin, sombre little man, not
too well dressed, with keen, small, light blue eyes, and thin, decisive,
beardless lips.

"Good-day, Mr. Thorndyke," he says, quietly.

"Liston--it _is_ Liston!" exclaims Mr. Thorndyke, a red, angry flush
mounting to his face. "At your usual insolent tricks, I see--dogging me!
May I ask--"

"How I have found you out?" Mr. Liston interrupts, in the same calm,
quiet voice. "I knew you were here three weeks ago, Mr. Thorndyke. I saw
Maggs--the Reverend Jonas