after all, did condescend to introduce Mrs. Bingle to her own
exclusive dressmaker. Napoleon came. Mr. Bingle watched the newspapers
for an account of the suicide of Monsieur and Madame Rousseau, but no
such event was reported. No doubt the approach of spring deterred
them. They would probably wait until cold weather set in again.

In order to encourage the struggling Rousseau, he bought, through
Rouquin, a rather startling painting by the young artist, in which a
herd of red cattle partook placidly of the skyline and a pallid
windmill dominated the foreground. Later on, an expert informed him
that the red cattle were rocks on the edge of a pool and the windmill
was a lady making ready to dive into the water for a lonely swim. The
painting was signed, but the name was not Rousseau. It was Fauret.
Rouquin explained the discrepancy. He said that young Rousseau
preferred to paint under an assumed name--in truth, it was his
maternal grandmother's name--rather than to have his canvases confused
with those of the academic, old-school Barbizon painter. He was above
trading on a name that was fast becoming obsolete!

Then there came the astonishing disappearance of young Frederick. The
third day after Kathleen's departure, Frederick turned up missing. A
week passed before the detectives found him in Washington, penniless,
half-starved but valiant. He had run away from home to find Kathleen,
for, in his fickle heart, he had come to realise that it was she whom
he loved and not old Miss Fairweather at all. Extreme hunger and an
acute attack of home-sickness dampened his ardent regard for the
distant Kathleen, for the time being at least, and he was quite
content to return to Seawood, where, after all, he could have all he
wanted to eat and at the same time reflect audibly on the fact that he
was a real hero.