had further use for him. We were loitering on the steps between the
glass veranda and the terrace at the back of the hotel. The little
sunlit stage was full of vivid, trivial, transitory life, it seemed as a
foil to the vast eternal scene. The hanging judge still strutted with
his cigar, peering jocosely from under the broad brim of his Panama; the
great actor still posed aloof, the human Matterhorn of the group. I
descried no showy woman with a tall youth dancing attendance; among the
brick-red English faces there was not one that bore the least
resemblance to the latest photograph of Bob Evers.

A little consideration suggested my first move.

"I think I saw a visitors' book in the hall," I said. "I may as well
stick down my name."

But before doing so I ran my eye up and down the pages inscribed by
those who had arrived that month.

"See anybody you know?" inquired Quinby, who hovered obligingly at my
elbow. It was really necessary to be as disingenuous as possible, more
especially with a person whose own conversation was evidently quite
unguarded.

"Yes, by Jove I do! Robin Evers, of all people!"

"Do you know him?"

The question came pretty quickly. I was sorry I had said so much.

"Well, I once knew a small boy of that name; but then they are not a