ell"--Mrs. Greyne knit her superb forehead--"I should suggest that
you present yourself as an ordinary traveler, but with a
specially inquiring bent of mind and a slight tendency towards
the--the--er--hidden things of life."

"I suppose you wish me to visit the public houses?"

"I wish you to see everything that has part or lot in African frailty.
Go everywhere, see everything. Bring your notes to me, and I will select
such fragments of the broken commandments as suit my purpose, which
is, as always, the edifying of the human race. Only this time I mean to
purge it as by fire."

"That corner house in Park Lane, next to the Duke of Ebury's, would suit
us very well," said Mr. Greyne reflectively.

"We could sell our lease here at an advance," his wife rejoined. "You
will not waste your journey, Eustace?"

"My love," returned Mr. Greyne with decision, "I will apply to Rook on
arrival, and, if I find his man unsatisfactory, if I have any reason
to suspect that I am not being shown everything--more especially in the
Kasbah region, which, from the guide-books we bought to-day, is, I
take it, the most abandoned portion of the city--I will seek another
cicerone."

"Do so. And now to bed. You must sleep well to-night in preparation for
the journey."

It was their invariable habit before retiring to drink each a tumbler
of barley water, which was set out by the butler in Mrs. Greyne's study.
After this nightcap Mrs. Greyne wrote up her anticipatory diary, while
Mr. Greyne smoked a mild cigar, and then they went to bed. To-night,
as usual, they repaired to the sanctum, and drank their barley water.
Having done so, Mr. Greyne drew forth his cigar-case, while Mrs. Greyne
went to her writing-table, and prepared to unlock the drawer in which
her diary reposed, safe from all prying eyes.

The match was struck, the key was inserted in the lock, and turned. As
the cigar end glowed the drawer was opened. Mr. Greyne heard a contralto
cry. He turned from the arm-chair in which he was just about to seat
himself.

"My love, is anything the matter?"

His wife was bending forward with both hands in the drawer, telling over
its contents.

"My diary is not here!"

"Your diary!"

"It is gone."

"But"--he came over to her--"this is very serious. I presume, like all
diaries, it is full of----" Instinctively he had been about to say
"damning"; he remembered his dear one's irreproachable character and
substituted "precious secrets.