Only one member of the party had behaved in a normal manner. Sir Hubert
Fitzjames, soon after his arrival, went quietly to bed, but the
hall-porter's report as to the conduct of the others was passing
strange.

One of them, to his surprise, had rung up the Prefecture of Police in
Paris on the telephone. The others were standing at the hotel door,
gazing quietly enough at the passers-by, when suddenly about midnight
much excitement rose amongst them. They conversed eagerly in their own
tongue for a few moments, and the lady had rushed off down the street by
herself, whilst her two companions ran with equal precipitancy to join
the third in the sitting-room they had engaged, and there they were
still seated in moody expectancy, apparently watching for some dramatic
event to happen.

It was time that all good people were in bed. But it was hopeless to
approach such lunatics with questions, for they were English, and no
decent Frenchman could possibly hope to understand their actions or
motives. It was satisfactory that they could speak French well;
therefore the manager counselled the hall-porter to exhibit patience and
prudence. Moreover, milords upstairs would be sure to recompense him for
an enforced vigil by a liberal _pourboire_.

At last, when even the Cannebiere was empty, and when the latest cafe
had closed its doors and the final tramcar had wearily jingled its way
up the hill towards a distant suburb, the electric bell jangled a noisy
summons to the front door. It produced the hall-porter and Fairholme
with remarkable celerity.

The Frenchman cautiously opened the door and saw outside a muffled-up
female who eagerly demanded admittance. He knew by her accent that she
was not a Marseillaise, but the shawl that covered her head and
shoulders showed that she belonged to the working classes.

"Whom do you wish to see at this hour?" he gruffly demanded.

"I live here," said Edith. "I came here to-night with my brother from
Paris. Please let me in at once."

In her excitement and breathlessness, for she had hurried at top speed
from the harbour, Edith forgot that the homely garment she adopted as a
disguise effectually cloaked her from the recognition of the hall-porter
as from all others.

Moreover, her French accent was too good. It deceived the man even more
thoroughly than did the shawl.

"Oh, really now," he said, "this is for laughter! A woman like you
staying at the hotel! Be off, or I will call a gen