"They have all driven off together, monsieur," he announced eagerly,
"and the French gentleman first of all inquired of the driver how much
he would charge to take them to the Jolies Femmes. Two francs was the
fare, and this was agreeable, so they have gone there."

"I hope, in this instance," said Brett gravely, "that the Jolies Femmes
is the name of a hotel."

"But certainly," replied the porter, elevating his eyebrows; "what else
could it be?"

He meditated on this question for five minutes after Brett's departure,
and then an idea struck him.

"Ah," he cried, slapping his thigh with a grin, "he is a droll dog, that
Englishman."

Brett, secure in the knowledge that his quarry had been located, drove
back to his hostelry. He found Edith, Fairholme, and Talbot just sitting
down to breakfast. He joined them, and had barely communicated his
startling intelligence when Sir Hubert Fitzjames put in an appearance.

"Dear me," said the genial old soldier, smiling pleasantly at the
assembled party. "I see you are all nearly as lazy as I have been
myself. I hope you slept well, and enjoyed a quiet night."

The burst of merriment which greeted this remark not only amazed the
worthy baronet, but startled the other guests in the dining-room.

"That is a strange thing," whispered a Frenchman to his wife. "I thought
the English never laughed!"

CHAPTER XVII

THE YACHT "BLUE-BELL"

After breakfast the party adjourned to their sitting-room, and there
Brett detailed his immediate plan of action.

"The first point to determine is an important one," he said. "Which of
you three--Sir Hubert Fitzjames, Talbot, or Fairholme--looks most like a
Frenchman?"

The trio at once began to scrutinize each other carefully, to Edith's
intense amusement.

"I am afraid, uncle," she laughed, "we must rule you out at once. You
have 'British Major-General, late Indian Army' stamped so plainly on you
that here in Marseilles, a port accustomed to the weekly transit of P.
and O. passengers, the smallest child could not fail to identify you.
And as for you, Bobby! Good gracious! You are painfully Anglo-Saxon. I
am afraid, Jack, that we must decide against you. That is to say, I
suppose it hurts your vanity to be taken for a Frenchman; but you must
not forget that Mademoiselle Beaucaire thought you were good-looking,
and I suppose she adopts Parisian standards."

Jack was amused by his sister's raillery.

"It is gratifying to find,"