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Eugène, La Trappe, Mustapha, the baths of the Etat-Major, the Jardin d'Essai, the Villa-Anti-Juif, the " "One moment!" said Mr. Greyne. He turned to the clerk. "May I take a chair?" "Be seated, sir, pray be seated, and confer with Alphonso." So saying, he gave himself to an enormous ledger, while Mr.
Leaning from a reserved first-class compartment, Mr. Greyne waved a silk pocket-handkerchief so long as his wife's Roman profile stood out clear against the fog and smoke of London. But at last it faded, grew remote, took on the appearance of a feebly-executed crayon drawing, vanished. He sank back upon the cushions alone. Darrell was travelling second with the dressing-case.
"Well, madame" the proprietor displayed some slight confusion "I really can hardly say. The maître d'hôtel can perhaps inform you." Mrs. Greyne turned her ox-like eyes upon the enlarged edition of Napoleon the First. "Monsieur Greyne seldom returns before seven or eight o'clock in the morning, madame. He then retires to bed, and comes down to breakfast at about four o'clock in the afternoon."
Greyne's majestic features, made them look Rembrandtesque. Her large, oxlike eyes were fixed and thoughtful. After a pause, she said: "Eustace, I shall have to send you upon a mission." "A mission, Eugenia!" said Mr. Greyne in great surprise. "A mission of the utmost importance, the utmost delicacy." "Has it anything to do with Romeike & Curtice?" "No." "Will it take me far?" "That is my trouble.
Greyne had taken what she called "a new departure." Mr. Greyne's remark is, therefore, explicable. "True. Still, there is always Park Lane." She mused for a moment. Then, leaning more heavily upon the carved lions of her chair, she continued: "Hitherto, although I have sometimes dealt with human frailty, I have treated it gently. I have never betrayed a Zola-spirit." "Zola! My darling!" cried Mr.
Unless mamma lives there is no one in the world who cares for me, for whom I care." "There there is Mrs. Greyne," said her husband. "And then St. Paul's remember St. Paul's." "Ah ce charmant St. Paul's! Shall I ever see him more?" She looked at Mr. Greyne, and suddenly he knew not why Mr. Greyne remembered the incident of the diary, and blushed. "Monsieur has fever!" Mr. Greyne shook his head.
Abdallah Jack waved his hand towards a stone rampart dimly seen in the faint light that emanated from the starry sky. "Down there into the alley of the Dead Dervishes." Mrs. Greyne could not repress a cry of horror. At that moment she would have given a thousand pounds to have Mrs. Forbes at her side. Abdallah Jack grasped her by the hand, and led her ruthlessly forward.
"You are his wife, and told him to come here, and to do as he has done?" "Ye-yes," faltered Mrs. Greyne, for the first time in her life feeling as if she were being escorted towards the criminal dock by a jailer with Puritan tendencies. "Then it is true what they say on the shores of the great canal," he remarked composedly. "What do they say?" inquired Mrs. Greyne.
Greyne sprang upstairs, seized a Merrin's exercise-book and a lead pencil, put on a dark overcoat, popped one of the Springfield revolvers into the pocket of it, and hastened down into the hall of the hotel, where the audacious-looking young man was standing, surrounded by saucy chasseurs in gay liveries and peaked caps, by Algerian waiters, and by German-Swiss porters, all of whom were smiling and looking choke-full of sympathetic comprehension.
Greyne in a slightly yearning voice. "My Eustace!" she added to herself, "my devoted one!" "Monsieur Greyne is pale as washed linen upon the Kasbah wall," replied Abdallah Jack, lighting a cigarette, and wreathing the great novelist in its grey-blue smoke. "He is thin as the Spahi's lance, he is nervous as the leaves of the eucalyptus-tree when the winds blow from the north." Mrs.
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