Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo. E. Phillips Oppenheim

in her mind. Her delicate eyebrows drew closer together in a distinct frown. After that first shock, that queer turmoil of feeling, beyond analysis, yet having within it some entirely unexpected constituent, she found herself disposed to be angry. The sensation had not subsided when a moment or two later she was conscious that the man whose coming had proved so disturbing was standing before her.

      "Good afternoon," he said, a little stiffly.

      She raised her eyes. The frown was still upon her forehead, although to a certain extent it was contradicted by a slight tremulousness of the lips.

      "Good afternoon, Henry!"

      For some reason or other, further speech seemed to him a difficult matter. He moved towards the vacant place.

      "If you have no objection," he observed, as he seated himself.

      She unfurled her fan—an ancient but wonderful weapon of defence. It gave her a brief respite. Then she looked at him calmly.

      "Of all places in the world," she murmured, "to meet you here!"

      "Is it so extraordinary?"

      "I find it so," she admitted. "You don't at all fit in, you know. A scene like this," she added, glancing around, "would scarcely ever be likely to attract you for its own sake, would it?"

      "It doesn't particularly," he admitted.

      "Then why have you come?"

      He remained silent. The frown upon her forehead deepened.

      "Perhaps," she went on coldly, "I can help you with your reply. You have come because you are not satisfied with the reports of the private detective whom you have engaged to watch me. You have come to supplement them by your own investigation."

      His frown matched hers. The coldness of his tone was rendered even more bitter by its note of anger.

      "I am surprised that you should have thought me capable of such an action," he declared. "All I can say is that it is thoroughly in keeping with your other suspicions of me, and that I find it absolutely unworthy."

      She laughed a little incredulously, not altogether naturally.

      "My dear Henry," she protested, "I cannot flatter myself that there is any other person in the world sufficiently interested in my movements to have me watched."

      "Are you really under the impression that that is the case?" he enquired grimly.

      "It isn't a matter of impression at all," she retorted. "It is the truth. I was followed from London, I was watched at Cannes, I am watched here day by day—by a little man in a brown suit and a Homburg hat, and with a habit of lounging. He lounges under my windows, he is probably lounging across the way now. He has lounged within fifty yards of me for the last three weeks, and to tell you the truth I am tired of him. Couldn't I have a week's holiday? I'll keep a diary and tell you all that you want to know."

      "Is it sufficient," he asked, "for me to assure you, upon my word of honour, that I know nothing of this?"

      She was somewhat startled. She turned and looked at him. His tone was convincing. He had not the face of a man whose word of honour was a negligible thing.

      "But, Henry," she protested, "I tell you that there is no doubt about the matter. I am watched day and night—I, an insignificant person whose doings can be of no possible interest save to you and you only."

      The man did not at once reply. His thoughts seemed to have wandered off for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone had lost its note of resentment.

      "I do not blame you for your suspicion," he said calmly, "although I can assure you that I have never had any idea of having you watched. It is not a course which could possibly have suggested itself to me, even in my most unhappy moments."

      She was puzzled—at once puzzled and interested.

      "I am so glad to hear this," she said, "and of course I believe you, but there the fact is. I think that you will agree with me that it is curious."

      "Isn't it possible," he ventured to suggest, "that it is your companions who are the object of this man's vigilance? You are not, I presume, alone here?"

      She eyed him a little defiantly.

      "I am here," she announced, "with Mr. and Mrs. Draconmeyer."

      He heard her without any change of expression, but somehow or other it was easy to see that her news, although more than half expected, had stung him.

      "Mr. and Mrs. Draconmeyer," he repeated, with slight emphasis on the latter portion of the sentence.

      "Certainly! I am sorry," she went on, a moment late, "that my companions do not meet with your approval. That, however, I could scarcely expect, considering—"

      "Considering what?" he insisted, watching her steadfastly.

      "Considering all things," she replied, after a moment's pause.

      "Mrs. Draconmeyer is still an invalid?"

      "She is still an invalid."

      The slightly satirical note in his question seemed to provoke a certain defiance in her manner as she turned a little sideways towards him. She moved her fan slowly backwards and forwards, her head was thrown back, her manner was almost belligerent. He took up the challenge. He asked her in plain words the question which his eyes had already demanded.

      "I find myself constrained to ask you," he said, in a studiously measured tone, "by what means you became possessed of the pearls you are wearing? I do not seem to remember them as your property."

      Her eyes flashed.

      "Don't you think," she returned, "that you are a little outstepping your privileges?"

      "Not in the least," he declared. "You are my wife, and although you have defied me in a certain matter, you are still subject to my authority. I see you wearing jewels in public of which you were certainly not possessed a few months ago, and which neither your fortune nor mine—"

      "Let me set your mind at rest," she interrupted icily. "The pearls are not mine. They belong to Mrs. Draconmeyer."

      "Mrs. Draconmeyer!"

      "I am wearing them," she continued, "at Linda's special request. She is too unwell to appear in public and she is very seldom able to wear any of her wonderful jewelry. It gives her pleasure to see them sometimes upon other people."

      He remained quite silent for several moments. He was, in reality, passionately angry. Self-restraint, however, had become such a habit of his that there were no indications of his condition save in the slight twitchings of his long fingers and a tightening at the corners of his lips. She, however, recognised the symptoms without difficulty.

      "Since you defy my authority," he said, "may I ask whether my wishes have any weight with you?"

      "That depends," she replied.

      "It is my earnest wish," he went on, "that you do not wear another woman's jewelry, either in public or privately."

      She appeared to reflect for a moment. In effect she was struggling against a conviction that his request was reasonable.

      "I am sorry," she said at last. "I see no harm whatever in my doing so in this particular instance. It gives great pleasure to poor Mrs. Draconmeyer to see her jewels and admire them, even if she is unable to wear them herself. It gives me an intense joy which even a normal man could scarcely be expected to understand; certainly not you. I am sorry that I cannot humour you."

      He leaned towards her.

      "Not if I beg you?"

      She looked at him fixedly, looked at him as though she searched for something in his face, or was pondering over something in his tone. It was a moment which might have meant much. If she could have seen into his heart and understood the fierce jealousy which prompted his words, it might have meant a very great deal. As it was, her contemplation