acquaintance. He had happened to be early abroad, and saw them come on.
They were a lady of some personal attraction, comfortably furred, who,
descending from a first-class carriage, was met by a man from a third-
class, bare-headed, free in the neck, loosely clad in grey flannel
trousers which flapped about his thin legs in the sea-breeze, a white
sweater with a rolling collar, and a pair of sandals upon brown and sinewy
feet uncovered by socks: these two. The man's garniture was extraordinary,
but himself no less so. He had a lean and deeply bronzed face, hatchet-
shaped like a Hindoo's. You looked instinctively for rings in his ears.
His moustache was black and sinuous, outlining his mouth rather than
hiding it. His hair, densely black, was longish and perfectly straight.
His eyes were far-sighted and unblinking; he smiled always, but furtively,
as if the world at large amused him, but must never know it. He seemed to
observe everything, except the fact that everybody observed himself.

To have once seen such a man must have provided for his recollection; and
yet our traveller, who was young and debonnaire, though not so young as he
seemed, first recognised the lady. "Mrs. Germain, by George!" This to
himself, but aloud, "Now, where's she been all this time?" The frown which
began to settle about his discerning eyes speedily dissolved in wonder as
they encountered the strange creature in the lady's company. He stared, he
gaped, then slapped his thigh. "Jack Senhouse! That's the man. God of
battles, what a start! Now, what on earth is Jack Senhouse doing, playing
courier to Mrs. Germain?"

That was precisely the employment. His man had handed the lady out of her
compartment, entered it when she left it, and was possessing himself of
her littered vestiges while these speculations were afloat. Dressing-case,
tea-basket, umbrellas, rugs, and what not, he filled his arms with them,
handed them over to expectant porters, then smilingly showed their