while the little crowd gathered more closely about the wave-worn group.

"I am Mrs. Eustace Greyne," returned the great novelist recklessly. "I
am the wife of Mr. Eustace Greyne."

There was a moment of supreme silence. Then a loud, an even piercing
"_Oh, la, la,_ broke upon the air, succeeded instantaneously by a burst
of laughter that seemed to thrill with all the wild blessedness of
boyhood. It came, of course, from the little chasseur; it came, and
stayed. Nothing could stop it, and eventually the happy child had to be
carried forth upon the sea-front to enjoy his innocent mirth at leisure
and in solitude beneath the African stars. Mrs. Greyne did not notice
his disappearance. She was intent upon important matters.

"At what time does Mr. Greyne usually set forth?" she asked of the
proprietor, whose face now bore a strangely twisted appearance, as if
afflicted by a toothache.

"Immediately after dinner, madame, if not before. Of late it has
generally been before."

"And he stays out late?"

"Very late, madame."

The twisted appearance began to seem infectious. It was visible upon the
faces of most of those surrounding Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes. Indeed,
even the latter showed some signs of it, although the large shadow cast
over her features by the hind side of her Mother Hubbard bonnet to some
extent disguised them from the public view.

"Till what hour?" pursued Mrs. Greyne in a voice of almost yearning
tenderness and pity.

"Well, madame"--the proprietor displayed some slight confusion--"I
really can hardly say. The _maitre d'hotel_ can perhaps inform you."

Mrs. Greyne turned her ox-like eyes upon the enlarged edition of
Napoleon the First.

"Monsieur Greyne seldom returns before seven or eight o'clock in the
morning, madame. He then retires to bed, and comes down to breakfast at
about four o'clock in the afternoon."

Mrs. Greyne was touched to the very quick. Her husband was sacrificing
his rest, his health--nay, perhaps even his very life--in her service.
It was well she had come, well that a period was to be put to these
terrible researches. They should be stopped at once, even this very
night. Better a thousand literary failures than that her husband's
existence should be placed in jeopardy. She rose suddenly from her
chair, tottered, gasped, recovered herself, and spoke.

"Prepare dinner for me at once," she said, "and order a carriage and a
competent guide to be before the door in half-an