to answer.

"Oh, a man who was at Nice with us last year," I stammered out,
trying hard to look unconcerned. "A fellow they talked about,
that's all." And I turned the subject.

But the curate, like a donkey, wouldn't let me turn it.

"Had he eyebrows like that?" he inquired, in an undertone. I was
really angry. If this _was_ Colonel Clay, the curate was obviously
giving him the cue, and making it much more difficult for us to
catch him, now we might possibly have lighted on the chance of
doing so.

"No, he hadn't," I answered testily; "it was a passing expression.
But this is not the man. I was mistaken, no doubt." And I nudged
him gently.

The little curate was too innocent for anything. "Oh, I see," he
replied, nodding hard and looking wise. Then he turned to his wife
and made an obvious face, which the man with the eyebrows couldn't
fail to notice.

Fortunately, a political discussion going on a few places farther
down the table spread up to us and diverted attention for a moment.
The magical name of Gladstone saved us. Sir Charles flared up. I
was truly pleased, for I could see Amelia was boiling over with
curiosity by this time.

After dinner, in the billiard-room, however, the man with the big