who is constitutionally cautious, had been even more careful than
usual about possible sharpers. And, as chance would have it, there
sat just opposite us at table d'hote at the Schweitzerhof--'tis
a fad of Amelia's to dine at table d'hote; she says she can't bear
to be boxed up all day in private rooms with "too much family"--a
sinister-looking man with dark hair and eyes, conspicuous by his
bushy overhanging eyebrows. My attention was first called to the
eyebrows in question by a nice little parson who sat at our side,
and who observed that they were made up of certain large and bristly
hairs, which (he told us) had been traced by Darwin to our monkey
ancestors. Very pleasant little fellow, this fresh-faced young
parson, on his honeymoon tour with a nice wee wife, a bonnie Scotch
lassie with a charming accent.

I looked at the eyebrows close. Then a sudden thought struck me. "Do
you believe they're his own?" I asked of the curate; "or are they
only stuck on--a make-up disguise? They really almost look like it."

"You don't suppose--" Charles began, and checked himself suddenly.

"Yes, I do," I answered; "the Seer!" Then I recollected my blunder,
and looked down sheepishly. For, to say the truth, Vandrift had
straightly enjoined on me long before to say nothing of our painful
little episode at Nice to Amelia; he was afraid if _she_ once heard
of it, _he_ would hear of it for ever after.

"What Seer?" the little parson inquired, with parsonical curiosity.

I noticed the man with the overhanging eyebrows give a queer sort
of start. Charles's glance was fixed upon me. I hardly knew what