Antoinette said nothing; but there was a feminine quiver at the
corners of her fat lips.

She was comfortably disposed of for the night. I drew a breath
of relief. To-morrow Great Scotland Yard should set out on the
track of the absconding Harry. Carlotta's happy recollection of
his surname facilitated the search. I lit a cigarette and opened
_The Westminster Gazette_.

A few moments later I was staring at the paper in blank horror
and dismay.

Harry was found. There was no mistake. Harry Robinson, junior
partner of the firm of Robinson & Co., of Mincing Lane. Vain,
indeed, would it be to seek the help of Great Scotland Yard.
Harry had blown out his brains in the South Western Hotel at
Southampton.


I have read the newspaper paragraph over and over again to-night.
There is no possible room for doubt that it is the same Harry.

The ways of man are past interpretation. Here is an individual
who lures a girl from an oriental harem, attires her in
disgusting garments, smuggles her on board a steamer, where he
claps her, so to speak, under hatches, and has little if anything
to do with her, sets her penniless and ticketless in a London
train, and then goes off and blows his brains out. Where is the
sense of it?