at the colonel, whose fingers drummed and drummed and drummed.

"Poor wretch! his stomach must be in bad shape. Or maybe he has the
palsy." Warburton mused upon the curious incertitude of the human
anatomy.

But Colonel Annesley did not have the palsy. What he had is at once
the greatest blessing and the greatest curse of God--remembrance, or
conscience, if you will.

What a beautiful color her hair was, dappled with sunshine and
shadow! ... Pshaw! Mr. Robert threw aside his shawl and book (it is
of no real importance, but I may as well add that he never completed
the reading of that summer's most popular novel) and sought the
smoking-room, where, with the aid of a fat perfecto and a liberal
stack of blues, he proceeded to divert himself till the boat reached
quarantine. I shall not say that he left any of his patrimony at the
mahogany table with its green-baize covering and its little brass
disks for cigar ashes, but I am certain that he did not make one of
those stupendous winnings we often read about and never witness. This
much, however: he made the acquaintance of a very important
personage, who was presently to add no insignificant weight on the
scales of Mr. Robert's destiny.

He was a Russian, young, handsome, suave, of what the newspapers
insist on calling distinguished bearing. He spoke English pleasantly
but imperfectly. He possessed a capital fund of anecdote, and
Warburton, being an Army man, loved a good droll story. It was a
revelation to see the way he dipped the end of his cigar into his
coffee, a stimulant which he drank with Balzacian frequency and