of the hotel. There were
mild little walks in the eucalyptus woods behind, where one went through
acanthus and wild absinthe, and here and there as the path wound, the
great blue bay came into view, and far away the snow-capped peaks of the
Atlas. There were warmth and sunshine, and the unexciting prattle of
the retired Colonels and maiden ladies. There was a hotel library filled
with archaic fiction. I took out Ainsworth's "Tower of London," and
passed a happy morning in the sun renewing the thrills of my childhood.
I began to forget the outer world in my enchanted garden, like a knight
in the Forest of Broceliande.

Then came the letter from Tlemcen. The Lieutenant-Colonel commanding
the 3rd Regiment of Chasseurs d'Afrique had received my honoured
communication but regretted to say that he, together with all the
officers of the regiment, had severed their connection with Captain
Vauvenarde, and that they were ignorant of his present address.

This was absurd. A man does not resign from his regiment and within
a year or two disappear like a ghost from the ken of every one of
his brother officers. I read the letter again. Did the severance of
connection mean the casting out of a black sheep from their midst?
I came to the conclusion that it did. They had washed their hands of
Captain Vauvenarde, and desired to hear nothing of him in the future.

So I awoke from my lethargy, and springing up sent not for my shield and
spear, but for an "Indicateur des Chemins de Fer." I would go to Tlemcen
and get to the bottom of it. I searched the time-table and found two
trains, one starting from Algiers at nine-forty at night and getting
into Tlemcen at noon next day, and one leaving at six-fifty in the
morning and arriving at half-past ten at night. I groaned aloud. The
dealing unto oneself a happy life and portion did not include abominable
train journeys like these. I was trying to decide whether I should
travel all night or all day when the Arab chasseur of the hotel brought
me a telegram. I opened it. It ran:

"Starting for Algiers. Meet me.--LOLA."

It was despatched that morning from Victoria Station. I gazed at it
stupidly. Why in the world was Lola Brandt coming to join me in Algiers?
If she had wanted to do her husband hunting on her own account, why had
she put me to the inconvenience of my journey? Her action could not have
been determined by my letter about Anastasius Papadopoulos, as a short
calculation proved