de the light flutter of a bird bathing.

I remembered suddenly how Sir Ralph had said one day, "You'll like Terry
in Venice." I did like Terry in Venice; and I liked him better than ever
at the moment of our return to the hotel, for there began a little
adventure of which he became the hero.

As I stepped out of the gondola there was a flash and a splash. "Oh my
gold bag!" I exclaimed. "Your present, Aunt Kathryn. It's in the canal;
I shall never see it again."

"Yes, you will," said Mr. Barrymore. "I--"

"If there was much money in it, you had better have a professional diver
come early to-morrow morning from the Arsenal," the Prince broke in.

"I know an amateur diver who will get back the bag to-night--now, within
the next half-hour I hope," went on the Chauffeulier.

"Indeed? Where do you propose to find him at this time?" asked the
Prince.

"I shall find him inside the hotel, and have him out here, ready for
work in ten minutes," said Mr. Barrymore.

"What fun!" exclaimed Beechy. "We'll wait here in the moonlight and see
him dive. It will be lovely."

Mr. Barrymore was gone before she finished.

It was nearly eleven o'clock. The music-barges had gone; the hotel
garden was deserted, and scarcely a moving star of light glided over the
canal. Our three gondolas, drawn up like carriages at the marble steps
of the Britannia, where the water lapped and gurgled, awaited the great
event. The Prince pooh-poohed the idea that Mr. Barrymore could find a
diver, or that, if he did, the bag could be retrieved in such an
amateurish way. But I had learned that when our Chauffeulier said a
thing could be done, it _would_ be done, and I confidently expected to
see him returning accompanied by some obviously aquatic creature.

What I did see however, was a great surprise. Something moved in the
garden, under the curtain of creepers that draped the nearest
overhanging balcony. Then a tall, marble statue, "come alive," vaulted
over the iron railing and dropped into the lagoon.

It didn't seem at all strange that a marble statue should "come alive"
in Venice; but what did seem odd was that it should exactly resemble Mr.
Barrymore, feature for feature, inch for inch.

"Hullo, Terry, I didn't know you meant to do that!" exclaimed Sir Ralph.
"You _are_ a lightning change artist."

For it was the Chauffeulier, in a bathing suit which he must have
hurriedly borrowed from one of the landlord's tall young sons, and he
was swim