THE MISSION OF MR. EUSTACE GREYNE

By Robert Hichens

Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers

Copyright, 1905

I

Mrs. Eustace Greyne (pronounced Green) wrinkled her forehead--thatnoble, that startling forehead which had been written about in thenewspapers of two hemispheres--laid down her American Squeezer pen, andsighed. It was an autumn day, nipping and melancholy, full of the rustleof dying leaves and the faint sound of muffin bells, and Belgrave Squarelooked sad even to the great female novelist who had written her wayinto a mansion there. Fog hung about with the policeman on the pavement. The passing motor cars were like shadows. Their stertorous pantingssounded to Mrs. Greyne's ears like the asthma of dying monsters. Shesighed again, and murmured in a deep contralto voice: "It must be so. "Then she got up, crossed the heavy Persian carpet which had been boughtwith the proceeds of a short story in her earlier days, and placed herforefinger upon an electric bell. 

Like lightning a powdered giant came. 

"Has Mr. Greyne gone out?"

"No, ma'am. "

"Where is he?"

"In his study, ma'am, pasting the last of the cuttings into the newalbum. "

Mrs. Greyne smiled. It was a pretty picture the unconscious six-footerhad conjured up. 

"I am sorry to disturb Mr. Greyne, " she answered, with that gracious, and even curling suavity which won all hearts; "but I wish to see him. Will you ask him to come to me for a moment?"

The giant flew, silk-stockinged, to obey the mandate, while Mrs. Greynesat down on a carved oaken chair of ecclesiastical aspect to await herhusband. 

She was a famous woman, a personage, this simply-attired lady. Withan American Squeezer pen she had won fame, fortune, and a mansionin Belgrave Square, and all without the sacrifice of principle. Respectability incarnate, she had so dealt with the sorrows and evils ofthe world that she had rendered them utterly acceptable to Mrs. Grundy, Mr. Grundy, and all the Misses Grundy. People said she dived into thedepths of human nature, and brought up nothing that need scandalise acurate's grandmother, or the whole-aunt of an archdeacon; and thiswas so true that she had made a really prodigious amount of money. Herlarge, her solid, her unrelenting books lay upon every table. Even thesmart set kept them, uncut--like pretty sinners who have never been"found out"--to give an air of haphazard intellectuality to friskyboudoirs, All the clergy, however unable to get their tithes, boughtthem. All bishops alluded to them in "pulpit utterances. " Fabulousprices were paid for them by magazine editors. They ran as serialsthrough all the tale of months. The suburbs battened on them. Theprovinces adored them. Country people talked of no other literature. Infact, Mrs. Eustace Greyne was a really fabulous success. 

Why, then, should she heave these heavy sighs in Belgrave Square? Whyshould she lift an intellectual hand as though to tousle the glossychestnut bandeaux which swept back from her forcible forehead, and screwher reassuring features into these wrinkles of perplexity and distress?

The door opened, and Mr. Eustace Greyne appeared, "What is it, Eugenia?" upon his lips. 

Mr. Greyne was a number of years younger than his celebrated wife, and looked even younger than his years. He was a very smart man, withsmooth, jet-black hair, which he wore parted in the middle; pleasant, dark eyes that could twinkle gently; a clear, pale complexion; and anice, tall figure. One felt, in glancing at him, that he had been anEton boy, and had at least thought of going into the militia at someperiod of his life. His history can be briefly told. 

Scarcely had he emerged into the world before he met and was married toMrs. Eustace Greyne, then Miss Eugenia Hannibal-Barker. He had had notime to sow a single oat, wild or otherwise; no time to adore a barmaid, or wish to have his name linked with that of an actress; no time to doanything wrong, or even to know, with the complete accuracy desiredby all persevering young men, what was really wrong. Miss EugeniaHannibal-Barker sailed upon his horizon, and he struck his flag tomatrimony. Ever since then he had been her husband, and had never, evenfor one second, emerged beyond the boundaries of the most intellectualrespectability. He was the most innocent of men, although he knew allthe important editors in London. Swaddled in money by his successfulwife, he considered her a goddess. She poured the thousands into Coutts'Bank, and with the arrival of each fresh thousand he was more firmlyconvinced that she was a goddess. To say he looked up to her would betoo mild. As the Cockney tourist in Chamounix peers at the summit ofMont Blanc, he peered at Mrs. Greyne. And when, finally, she bought thelease of the mansion in Belgrave Square, he knew her Delphic. 

So now he appeared in the oracle's retreat respectfully, "What is it, Eugenia?" upon his admiring lips. 

"Sit down, my husband, " she murmured. 

Mr. Greyne subsided by the fire, placing his pointed patent-leather toesupon the burnished fender. Without the fog grew deeper, and the chorusof the muffin bells more plaintive. The fire-light, flickering over Mrs. 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. It will take you very far. "

"Out of London?"

"Oh, yes. "

"Out of--not out of England?"

"Yes; it will take you to Algeria. "

"Good gracious!" cried Mr. Greyne. 

Mrs. Greyne sighed. 

"Good gracious!" Mr. Greyne repeated after a short interval. "Am I togo alone?" "Of course you must take Darrell. " Darrell was Mr. Greyne'svalet. 

"And what am I to do at Algiers?"

"You must obtain for me there the whole of the material for book sixof 'Catherine's Repentance, '" "Catherine's Repentance" was the giganticnovel upon which Mrs. Greyne was at that moment engaged. 

"I will not disguise from you, Eustace, " continued Mrs. Greyne, lookingincreasingly Rembrandtesque, "that, in my present work, I am taking asomewhat new departure. "

"Well, but we are very comfortable here, " said Mr. Greyne. 

With each new book they had changed their abode. "Harriet" took themfrom Phillimore Gardens to Queensgate Terrace; "Jane's Desire" movedthem on to a corner house in Sloane Street; with "Isobel's Fortune" theypassed to Curzon Street; "Susan's Vanity" landed them in Coburg Place;and, finally, "Margaret's Involution" had planted them in BelgraveSquare. Now, with each of these works of genius Mrs. Greyne had takenwhat 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 lionsof her chair, she continued:

"Hitherto, although I have sometimes dealt with human frailty, I havetreated it gently. I have never betrayed a Zola-spirit. "

"Zola! My darling!" cried Mr. Eustace Greyne. "You are surely not goingto betray anything of that sort now!"

"If she does we shall soon have to move off to West Kensington, " was hissecret thought. 

"No. But in book six of 'Catherine' I have to deal with sin, withtumult, with African frailty. It is inevitable. "

She sighed once more. The burden of the new book was very heavy uponher. 

"African frailty!" murmured the astonished Eustace Greyne. 

"Now, neither you nor I, my husband, know anything about this. "

"Certainly not, my darling. How should we? We have never explored beyondLucerne. "

"We must, therefore, get to know about it--at least you must. For Icannot leave London. The continuity of the brain's travelling must notbe imperiled by any violent bodily activity. In the present stage of mybook a sea journey might be disastrous. "

"Certainly you should keep quiet, my love. But then---"

"You must go for me to Algiers. There you must get me what I want. Ifear you will have to poke about in the native quarters a good deal forit, so you had better buy two revolvers, one for yourself and one forDarrell. "

Mr. Greyne gasped. The calmness of his wife amazed him. He was notintellectual enough to comprehend fully the deep imaginings of a mightybrain, the obsession work is in the worker. 

"African frailty is what I want, " pursued Mrs. Greyne. "One hundredclosely-printed pages of African frailty. You will collect for me theraw material, and I shall so manipulate it that it will fall discreetly, even elevatingly, into the artistic whole. Do you understand me, Eustace?"

"I am to travel to Algiers, and see all the wickedness to be seen there, take notes of it, and bring them back to you. "

"Precisely. "

"And how long am I to stay?"

"Until you have made yourself acquainted with the depths. "

"A fortnight?"

"I should think that would be enough. Take Brush's remedy forseasickness and plenty of antipyrin, your fur coat for the crossing, anda white helmet and umbrella for the arrival. You have lead pencils?"

"Plenty. "

"A couple of Merrin's exercise-books should be enough to contain yournotes. "

"When am I to go?"

"The sooner the better. I am at a standstill for want of the material. You might catch the express to Paris to-morrow; no, say the day afterto-morrow. " She looked at him tenderly. "The parting will be bitter. "

"Very bitter, " Mr. Eustace Greyne replied. 

He felt really upset. Mrs. Greyne laid the hand which had brought themfrom Phillimore Gardens to Belgrave Square gently upon his. 

"Think of the result, " she said. "The greatest book I have done yet. Abook that will last. A book that will----"

"Take us to Park Lane, " he murmured. 

The Rembrandtesque head nodded. The noble features, as of a strictlyrespectable Roman emperor, relaxed. 

"A book that will take us to Park Lane. "

At this moment the door opened, and the footman inquired:

"Could Mademoiselle Verbena see you for a minute, ma'am?"

Mademoiselle Verbena was the French governess of the two little Greynes. The great novelist had consented to become a mother. 

"Certainly. "

In another moment Mademoiselle Verbena was added to the group beside thefire. 

II

We have said that Mademoiselle Verbena was the French governess oflittle Adolphus and Olivia Greyne, and so she was to this extent--thatshe taught them French, and that Mr. And Mrs. Greyne supposed her to bea Parisian. But life has its little ironies. Mademoiselle Verbena in thehouse of this great and respectable novelist was one of them; for shewas a Levantine, born at Port Said of a Suez Canal father and a SuezCanal mother. Now, nobody can desire to say anything against Port Said. At the same time, few mothers would inevitably pick it out as the idealspot from which a beneficent influence for childhood's happy hour wouldbe certain to emanate. Nor, it must be allowed, is a Suez Canal ancestryspecially necessary to a trainer of young souls. It may not be adrawback, but it can hardly be described as an advantage. This, Mademoiselle Verbena was intelligent enough to know. She, therefore, concealed the fact that her father had been a dredger of Monsieur deLesseps' triumph, her mother a bar-lady of the historic coal wharf wherethe ships are fed, and preferred to suppose--and to permit others tosuppose--that she had first seen the light in the Rue St. Honoré, herparents being a count and countess of some old régime. 

This supposition, retained from her earliest years, had affected herappearance and her manner. She was a very neat, very trim, even a veryattractive little person, with dark brown, roguish eyes, blue-blackhair, a fairy-like figure, and the prettiest hands and feet imaginable. She had first attracted Mrs. Greyne's attention by her devotion to St. Paul's Cathedral, and this devotion she still kept up. Whenever she hadan hour or two free she always--so she herself said--spent it in "_cecharmant_ St. Paul. "

As she entered the oracle's retreat she cast down her eyes, and trembledvisibly. 

"What is it, Miss Verbena?" inquired Mrs. Greyne, with a kindly Englishaccent, calculated to set any poor French creature quite at ease. 

Mademoiselle Verbena trembled more. 

"I have received bad news, madame. "

"I grieve to hear it. Of what nature?"

"Mamma has _une bronchite très grave_. "

"A what, Miss Verbena?"

"Pardon, madame. A very grave bronchitis. She cries for me. "

"Indeed!"

"The doctors say she will die. "

"This is very sad. "

The Levantine wept. Even Suez Canal folk are not proof against all humansympathy. Mr. Greyne blew his nose beside the fire, and Mrs. Greyne saidagain:

"I repeat that this is very sad. "

"Madame, if I do not go to mamma tomorrow I shall not see her more. "

Mrs. Greyne looked very grave. 

"Oh!" she remarked. She thought profoundly for a moment, and then added:"Indeed!"

"It is true, madame. "

Suddenly Mademoiselle Verbena flung herself down on the Persian carpetat Mrs. Greyne's large but well-proportioned feet, and, bathing themwith her tears, cried in a heartrending manner:

"Madame will let me go! madame will permit me to fly to poor mamma--toclose her dying eyes--to kiss once again----"

Mr. Greyne was visibly affected, and even Mrs. Greyne seemed somewhatput about, for she moved her feet rather hastily out of reach of thedependant's emotion, and made her scramble up. 

"Where is your poor mother?"

"In Paris, madame. In the Rue St. Honoré, where I was born. Oh, if sheshould die there! If she should----"

Mrs. Greyne raised her hand, commanding silence. 

"You wish to go there?"

"If madame permits. "

"When?"

"To-morrow, madame. "

"To-morrow? This is decidedly abrupt. "

"_Mais la bronchite, madame_, she is abrupt, and death, she may beabrupt. "

"True. One moment!"

There was an instant's silence for Mrs. Greyne to let loose her brainin. She did so, then said:

"You have my permission. Go to-morrow, but return as soon as possible. I do not wish Adolphus to lose his still uncertain grasp upon theirregular verbs. "

In a flood of grateful tears Mademoiselle Verbena retired to make herpreparations. On the morrow she was gone. 

The morrow was a day of much perplexity, much bustle and excitement forMr. Greyne and the valet, Darrell. They were preparing for Algiers. Inthe morning, at an early hour, Mr. Greyne set forth in the barouche withMrs. Greyne to purchase African necessaries: a small but well-suppliedmedicine chest, a pith helmet, a white-and-green umbrella, a Baedeker, a couple of Smith & Wesson Springfield revolvers with a due amount ofcartridges, a dozen of Merrin's exercise-books--on mature reflectionMrs. Creyne thought that two would hardly contain a sufficient amount ofAfrican frailty for her present purpose--a packet of lead pencils, somebottles of a remedy for seasickness, a silver flask for cognac, andvarious other trifles such as travellers in distant continents require. 

Meanwhile Darrell was learning French for the journey, and packing hisown and his master's trunks. The worthy fellow, a man of twenty-fivesummers, had never been across the Channel--the Greynes being by nomeans prone to foreign travel--and it may, therefore, be imagined thathe was in a state of considerable expectation as he laid the trousers, coats, and waistcoats in their respective places, selected such bootsas seemed likely to wear well in a tropical climate, and dropped thoseshirts which are so contrived as to admit plenty of ventilation to theheated body into the case reserved for them. 

When Mr. Greyne returned from his shopping excursion the barouche, loaded almost to the gunwale--if one may be permitted a nauticalexpression in this connection--had to be disburdened, and its contentsconveyed upstairs to Mr. Greyne's bedroom, into which Mrs. Greyneherself presently entered to give directions for their disposing. Norwas it till the hour of sunset that everything was in due order, thestraps set fast, the keys duly turned in the locks--the labels--"Mr. Eustace Greyne: Passenger to Algiers: via Marseilles"--carefully writtenout in a full, round hand. Rook's tickets had been bought; so noweverything was ready, and the last evening in England might be spentby Mr. Greyne in the drawing-room and by Darrell in the servants' hallquietly, socially, perhaps pathetically. 

The pathos of the situation, it must be confessed, appealed more tothe master than to the servant. Darrell was very gay, and inclined to beboastful, full of information as to how he would comport himself with"them there Frenchies, " and how he would make "them pore, godless Arabssit up. " But Mr. Greyne's attitude of mind was very different. Asthe night drew on, and Mrs. Greyne and he sat by the wood fire in themagnificent drawing-room, to which they always adjourned after dinner, akeen sense of the sorrow of departure swept over them both. 

"How lonely you will feel without me, Eugenia, " said Mr. Greyne. "Ihave been thinking of that all day. "

"And you, Eustace, how desolate will be your tale of days! My mind runsmuch on that. You will miss me at every hour. "

"You are so accustomed to have me within call, to depend upon me forencouragement in your life-work. I scarcely know how you will get onwhen I am far across the sea. "

"And you, for whom I have labored, for whom I have planned andcalculated, what will be your sensations when you realize that agulf--the Gulf of Lyons--is fixed irrevocably between us?"

So their thoughts ran. Each one was full of tender pity for the other. Towards bedtime, however, conscious that the time for colloquy wasrunning short, they fell into more practical discourse. 

"I wonder, " said Mr. Greyne, "whether I shall find any difficulty ingaining the information you require, my darling. I suppose theseplaces"--he spoke vaguely, for his thoughts were vague--"are somewhatawkward to come at. Naturally they would avoid the eye of day. "

Mrs. Greyne looked profound. 

"Yes. Evil ever seeks the darkness. You will have to do the same. "

"You think my investigations must take place at night?"

"I should certainly suppose so. "

"And where shall I find a cicerone?"

"Apply to Rook. "

"In what terms? You see, dearest, this is rather a special matter, isn'tit?"

"Very special. But on no account hint that you are in Algiers for'Catherine's' sake. It would get into the papers. It would be cabled toAmerica. The whole reading world would be agog, and the future interestof the book discounted. "

Mr. Greyne looked at his wife with reverence. In such moments herealized, almost too poignantly, her great position. 

"I will be careful, " he said. "What would you recommend me to say?"

"Well"--Mrs. Greyne knit her superb forehead--"I should suggest thatyou present yourself as an ordinary traveler, but with aspecially inquiring bent of mind and a slight tendency towardsthe--the--er--hidden things of life. "

"I suppose you wish me to visit the public houses?"

"I wish you to see everything that has part or lot in African frailty. Go everywhere, see everything. Bring your notes to me, and I will selectsuch fragments of the broken commandments as suit my purpose, whichis, as always, the edifying of the human race. Only this time I mean topurge it as by fire. "

"That corner house in Park Lane, next to the Duke of Ebury's, would suitus very well, " said Mr. Greyne reflectively. 

"We could sell our lease here at an advance, " his wife rejoined. "Youwill not waste your journey, Eustace?"

"My love, " returned Mr. Greyne with decision, "I will apply to Rook onarrival, and, if I find his man unsatisfactory, if I have any reasonto suspect that I am not being shown everything--more especially in theKasbah region, which, from the guide-books we bought to-day, is, Itake it, the most abandoned portion of the city--I will seek anothercicerone. "

"Do so. And now to bed. You must sleep well to-night in preparation forthe journey. "

It was their invariable habit before retiring to drink each a tumblerof barley water, which was set out by the butler in Mrs. Greyne's study. After this nightcap Mrs. Greyne wrote up her anticipatory diary, whileMr. Greyne smoked a mild cigar, and then they went to bed. To-night, as usual, they repaired to the sanctum, and drank their barley water. Having done so, Mr. Greyne drew forth his cigar-case, while Mrs. Greynewent to her writing-table, and prepared to unlock the drawer in whichher diary reposed, safe from all prying eyes. 

The match was struck, the key was inserted in the lock, and turned. Asthe cigar end glowed the drawer was opened. Mr. Greyne heard a contraltocry. He turned from the arm-chair in which he was just about to seathimself. 

"My love, is anything the matter?"

His wife was bending forward with both hands in the drawer, telling overits contents. 

"My diary is not here!"

"Your diary!"

"It is gone. "

"But"--he came over to her--"this is very serious. I presume, like alldiaries, it is full of----" Instinctively he had been about to say"damning"; he remembered his dear one's irreproachable character andsubstituted "precious secrets. "

"It is full of matter which must never be given to the world--my secretthoughts, my aspirations. The whole history of my soul is there. "

"Heavens! It must be found. "

They searched the writing-table. They searched the room. No diary. 

"Could you have taken it to my room, and left it there?" asked Mr. Greyne. 

They hastened thither, and looked--in vain. By this time the servantswere gone to bed, and the two searchers were quite alone on the groundfloor of their magnificent mansion. Mrs. Greyne began to look seriouslyperturbed. Her Roman features worked. 

"This is appalling, " she exclaimed. "Some thief, knowing it priceless, must have stolen the diary. It will be published in America. It willbring in thousands--but to others, not to us. "

She began to wring her hands. It was near midnight. 

"Think, my love, think!" cried Mr. Greyne. "Where could you have takenit? You had it last night?"

"Certainly. I remember writing in it that you would be sailing toAlgiers on the _Général Bertrand_ on Thursday of this week, and that onthe night I should be feeling widowed here. The previous night I wrotethat yesterday I should have to tell you of your mission. You know Ialways put down beforehand what I shall do, what I shall even thinkon each succeeding day. It is a practice that regulates the mind andconduct, that helps to uniformity. "

"How true! Who can have taken it? Do you ever leave it about?"

"Never. Am I a madwoman?"

"My darling, compose yourself! We must search the house. "

They proceeded to do so, and, on coming into the schoolroom, Mrs. Greyne, who was in front, uttered a sudden cry. 

Upon the table of Mademoiselle Verbena lay the diary, open at thefollowing entry:--

On Thursday next poor Eustace will be on board the _Général Bertrand_, sailing for Algiers. I shall be here thinking of myself, and of him inrelation to myself. God help us both. Duty is sometimes stern. Mem. Thecorner house in Park Lane, next the Duke of Ebury's, has sixty yearsstill to run; the lease, that is. Thursday--poor Eustace!

"What does this portend?" cried Mrs. Greyne. 

"My darling, it passes my wit to imagine, " replied her husband. 

III

The parting of Mr. And Mrs. Greyne on the following morning was veryaffecting. It took place at Victoria Station, in the midst of a smallcrowd of admiring strangers, who had recognised the commandingpresence of the great novelist, and had gathered round to observe hermanifestations. 

Mrs. Greyne was considerably shaken by the event of the previous night. Although, on the discovery of the diary, the house had been roused, andall the servants closely questioned, no light had been thrown upon itsmigration from the locked drawer to the schoolroom table. Adolphus andOlivia, jerked from sleep by the hasty hands of a maid, could only weepand wan. The powdered footmen, one and all, declared they had neverheard of a diary. The butler gave warning on the spot, keeping on hisnightcap to give greater effect to his pronunciamento. It was all mostunsatisfactory, and for one wild moment Mrs. Greyne seriously thoughtof retaining her husband by her as a protection against the mysteriousthief who had been at work in their midst. Could it be MademoiselleVerbena? The dread surmise occurred, but Mr. Greyne rejected it. 

"Her father was a count, " he said. "Besides, my darling, I don'tbelieve she can read English; certainly not unless it is printed. "

So there the matter rested, and the moment of parting came. 

There was a murmur of respectful sympathy as Mrs. Greyne claspedher husband tenderly in her arms, and pressed his head against herprune-coloured bonnet strings. The whistle sounded. The train moved on. Leaning from a reserved first-class compartment, Mr. Greyne waved a silkpocket-handkerchief so long as his wife's Roman profile stood out clearagainst the fog and smoke of London. But at last it faded, grew remote, took on the appearance of a feebly-executed crayon drawing, vanished. Hesank back upon the cushions--alone. Darrell was travelling second withthe dressing-case. 

It was a strange sensation, to be alone, and _en route_ to Algiers. Mr. Greyne scarcely knew what to make of it. A schoolboy suddenly despatchedto Timbuctoo could hardly have felt more terribly emancipated than hedid. He was so absolutely unaccustomed to freedom, he had been for solong without the faintest desire for it, that to have it thrust uponhim so suddenly was almost alarming. He felt lonely, anxious, horriblyunmarried. To divert his thoughts he drew forth a Merrin's exercise-bookand a pencil, and wrote on the first page, in large letters, "_AfricanFrailty, Notes for_" Then he sat gazing at the title of his firstliterary work, and wondering what on earth he was going to see inAlgiers. 

Vague visions of himself in the bars of African public-houses, inmosques, in the two-pair-backs of dervishes, in bazaars--which hepictured to himself like those opened by royalties at the Queen'sHall--in Moorish interiors surrounded by voluptuous ladies with largeoval eyes, black tresses, and Turkish trousers of spangled muslin, flitted before his mental gaze. When the train ran upon Dover Pier, andthe white horses of the turbulent Channel foamed at his feet, he startedas one roused from a Rip Van Winkle sleep. Severe illness occupied hiswhole attention for a time, and then recovery. 

In Paris he dined at the buffet like one in a dream, and, at theappointed hour, came forth to take the _rapide_ for Marseilles. Helooked for Darrell and the dressing-case. They were not to be seen. There stood the train. Passengers were mounting into it. Old ladieswith agitated faces were buying pillows and nibbling biscuits. Elderlygentlemen with yellow countenances and red ribands in their coats werepurchasing the _Figaro_ and the _Gil Blas_. Children with bare legs werebeing hauled into compartments. Rook's agent was explaining to a muddledtourist in a tam-o'-shanter the exact difference between the words "Oui"and "Non" The bustle of departure was in the air, but Darrell was notto be seen. Mr. Greyne had left him upon the platform with minutedirections as to the point from which the train would start and the hourof its going. Yet he had vanished. The most frantic search, the mostfrenzied inquiries of officials and total strangers, failed to elicithis whereabouts, and, finally, Mr. Greyne was flung forcibly upwardinto the _wagonlit_, and caught by the _contrôleur_ when the train wasactually moving out of the station. 

A moment later he fell exhausted upon the pink-plush seat of hiscompartment, realising his terrible position. He was now utterly alone;without servant, hair-brushes, toothbrushes, razors, sponges, pajamas, shoes. It was a solitude that might be felt. He thought of the seajourney with no kindly hand to minister to him, the arrival in Africawith no humble companion at his side, to wonder with him at the blackinhabitants and help him through the customs--to say nothing of themanners. He thought of the dread homes of iniquity into which hemust penetrate by night in search of the material for the voracious"Catherine. " He had meant to take Darrell with him to them all--Darrell, whose joyful delight in the prospect of exploring the Eastern fastnessesof crime had been so boyish, so truly English in its frank, its evenboisterous sincerity. 

And now he was utterly alone, almost like Robinson Crusoe. 

The _contrôleur_ came in to make the bed. Mr. Greyne told him thedreadful story. 

"No doubt he has been lured away, monsieur. The dressing-case was ofvalue?"

"Crocodile, gold fittings. "

"Probably monsieur will never see him again. As likely as not he willsleep in the Seine to-night, and at the morgue to-morrow. "

Mr. Greyne shuddered. This was an ill omen for his expedition. He dranka stiff whisky-and-soda instead of the usual barley water, and went tobed to dream of bloody murders in which he was the victim. 

When the train ran into Marseilles next morning he was an unshaven, miserable man. 

"Have I time to buy a tooth-brush, " he inquired anxiously at thestation, "before the boat sails for Algiers?"

The _chef de gare_ thought so. Monsieur had four hours, if that wassufficient. Mr. Greyne hastened forth, had a Turkish bath, purchased anew dressing-case, ate a hasty _déjeuner_, and took a cab to the wharf. It was a long drive over the stony streets. He glanced from side toside, watching the bustling traffic, the hurry of the nations going toand from the ships. His eyes rested upon two Arabs who were stridingalong in his direction. Doubtless they were also bound for Algiers. Hethought they looked most wicked, and hastily took a note of them for"African Frailty. " Beside his sense of loss and loneliness marched thesense of duty. The great woman at home in Belgrave Square, founder ofhis fortunes, mother of his children, she depended upon him. Even in hisown hour of need he would not fail her. He took a lead pencil, and wrotedown:

Saw two Arab ruffians. Bare legs. Look capable of anything. Should notbe surprised to hear that they had----

There he paused. That they had what? Done things. Of course, but whatthings? That was the question. He exerted his imagination, but failed toarrive at any conclusion as to their probable crimes. His knowledgeof wickedness was really absurdly limited. For the first time he feltslightly ashamed of it, and began to wish he had gone into the militia. He comforted himself with the thought that in a fortnight he wouldprobably be fit for the regular army. This thought cheered him slightly, and it was with a slight smile upon his face that he welcomed the firstglimpse of the _Général Bertrand_, which was lying against the quayready to cast off at the stroke of noon. Most of the passengers wereaboard, but, as Mr. Greyne stepped out of his cab, and prepared to paythe Maltese driver, a trim little lady, plainly dressed in black, andcarrying a tiny and rather coquettish hand-bag, was tripping lightlyacross the gangway. Mr. Greyne glanced at her as he turned to follow, glanced, and then started. That back was surely familiar to him. Wherecould he have seen it before? He searched his memory as the little ladyvanished. It was a smart, even a _chic_ back, a back that knew how totake care of itself, a back that need not go through the world alone, a back, in fine, that was most distinctly attractive, if not absolutelyalluring. Where had he seen it before, or had he ever seen it at all?He thought of his wife's back, flat, powerful, uncompromising. This wasvery different, more--how should he put it to himself?--more Algerian, perhaps. He could vaguely conceive it a back such as one might meet withwhile engaged in adding to one's stock of knowledge of--well--Africanfrailty. 

At this moment the steward appeared to show him to his cabin, and hisfurther reflections were mainly connected with the Gulf of Lyons. 

Twilight was beginning to fall when, so far as he was capable ofthinking, he thought he would like a breath of air. For some moments helay quite still, dwelling on this idea which had so mysteriously come tohim. Then he got up, and thought again, seated upon the cabin floor. He knew there was a deck. He remembered having seen one when he cameaboard. He put on his fur coat, still sitting on the cabin floor. Theprocess took some time--he fancied about a couple of years. At last, however, it was completed, and he rose to his feet with the assistanceof the washstand and the berth. 

The ship seemed very busy, full of almost American activity. He thoughta greater calm would have been more decent, and waited in the hopethat the floor would presently cease to forget itself. As it showed nosymptoms of complying with his desire he endeavoured to spurn it, and, in the fulness of time, gained the companion. 

It was very strange, as he remembered afterwards, that only when he hadgained the companion did the sense of his utter loneliness rush uponhim with overwhelming force: one of the ironies of life, he supposed. Eventually he shook the companion off with a good deal of difficulty, and found himself installed upon planks under a grey sky, and holdingfast to a railing, which was all that interposed between him andeternity. 

At first he was only conscious of greyness and the noise of windsand waters, but presently a black daub seemed to hover for a secondsomewhere on the verge of his world, to hover and disappear. He wonderedwhat it was. A smut, perhaps. He rubbed his face. The daub returned. It was very large for a smut. He strove to locate it, and found that itmust be somewhere on his left cheek. With a great effort he took out hispocket-handkerchief. Suddenly the daub assumed monstrous proportions. He turned his head, and perceived the lady in black whom he had seentripping over the gangway on his arrival. 

She was a few steps from him, leaning upon the rail in an attitude ofthe deepest dejection, with her face averted; yet it struck him that herright shoulder was oddly familiar, as her back had surely been. The turnof her head, too--he coughed despairingly. The lady took no notice. Hecoughed again. Interest was quickening in him. He was determined to seethe lady's face. 

This time she looked around, showing a pale countenance bedewed withtears, and totally devoid of any expression which he could connect witha consciousness of his presence. For a moment she stared vacantly athim, while he, with almost equal vacancy, regarded her. Then a thrill ofsurprise shook him. A sudden light of knowledge leaped up in him, and heexclaimed:

"Mademoiselle Verbena!" "Monsieur?" murmured the lady, with an accentof surprise. 

"Mademoiselle Verbena! Surely it is--it must be!"

He had staggered sideways, nearing her. 

"Mademoiselle Verbena, do you not know me? It is I, Eustace Greyne, thefather of your pupils, the husband of Mrs. Eustace Greyne?"

An expression of stark amazement came into the lady's face at thesewords. She leaned forward till her eyes were close to Mr. Greyne's thengave a little cry. 

"_Mon Dieu!_ It is true! You are so altered that I could not recognise. And then--what are you doing here, on the wide sea, far from madame?"

"I was just about to ask you the very same question!" cried Mr. Greyne. 

IV

"Alas, monsieur!" said Mademoiselle Verbena in her silvery voice, "I goto see my poor mother. "

"But I understood that she was dying in Paris. "

"Even so. But, when I reached the Rue St. Honoré, I found that theyhad removed to Algiers. It was the only chance, the doctor said--a warmclimate, the sun of Africa. There was no time to let me know. They tookher away at once. And now I follow--perhaps to find her dead. "

Large tears rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Greyne was deeply affected. 

"Let us hope for the best, " he exclaimed, seized by a happy inspiration. 

The Levantine strove to smile. 

"But you, monsieur, why are you here? Ah! perhaps madame is with you!Let me go to her! Let me kiss her dear hands once more----"

Mr. Greyne mournfully checked her fond excitement. 

"I am quite alone, " he said. 

A tragic expression came into the Levantine's face. 

"But, then----" she began. 

It was impossible for him to tell her about "Catherine. " He was, therefore, constrained to subterfuge. 

"I--I was suddenly overtaken by--by influenza, " he said, in someconfusion. "The doctor recommended change of air, of scene. "

"He suggested Algiers----"

"_Mon Dieu!_ It is like poor mamma!"

"Precisely. Our constitutions are--are doubtless similar. I shall takethis opportunity also of improving my knowledge of African mannersand--and customs. "

A strange smile seemed to dawn for a second on Mademoiselle Verbena'sface, but it died instantaneously in a grimace of pain. 

"My teeth make me bad, " she said. "Ah, monsieur, I must go below, to pray for poor mamma--" she paused, then softly added, "and formonsieur. "

She made a movement as if to depart, but Mr. Greyne begged her toremain. In his loneliness the sight even of a Levantine whom he knewsolaced his yearning heart. He felt quite friendly towards this poor, unhappy girl, for whom, perhaps, such a shock was preparing upon thedistant shore. 

"Better stay!" he said. "The air will do you good. "

"Ah, if I die, what matter? Unless mamma lives there is no one in theworld 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. Greyneremembered the incident of the diary, and blushed. 

"Monsieur has fever!"

Mr. Greyne shook his head. The Levantine eyed him curiously. 

"Monsieur wishes to say something to me, and does not like to speak. "

Mr. Greyne made an effort. Now that he was with this gentle lady, with her white face, her weeping eyes, her plain black dress, the meresuspicion that she could have opened a locked drawer with a secret key, and filched therefrom a private record, seemed to him unpardonable. Yet, for a brief instant, it had occurred to him, and Mrs. Greyne hadseriously held it. He looked at Mademoiselle Verbena, and a suddenimpulse to tell her the truth overcame him. 

"Yes, " he said. 

"Tell me, monsieur. "

In broken words--the ship was still very busy--Mr. Greyne related theincident of the loss and finding of the diary. As he spoke a slightchange stole over the Levantine's face. It certainly became less pale. 

"But you have fever now!" cried Mr. Greyne anxiously. 

"I! No; I flush with horror, not with fever! The diary, the sacred diaryof madame, exposed to view, read by the children, perhaps the servants!That footman, Thomas, with the nose of curiosity! Ah! I behold that nosepenetrating into the holy secrets of the existence of madame! I beholdit--ah!"

She burst into a fit of hysterics, the laughing species, which isso much more terrible than the other sort. Mr. Greyne was greatlyconcerned. He lurched to her, and implored her to be calm; but she onlylaughed the more, while tears streamed down her cheeks. The vision ofThomas gloating over Mrs. Greyne's diary seemed utterly to unnerve her, and Mr. Greyne was able to measure, by this ebullition of horror, thedepth of the respect and affection entertained by her for his belovedwife. When, at length, she grew calmer he escorted her towards hercabin, offering her his arm, on which she leaned heavily. As soon asthey were in the narrow and heaving passage she turned to him, and said:

"Who can have taken the diary?"

Mr. Greyne blushed again. 

"We think it was Thomas, " he said. 

Mademoiselle Verbena looked at him steadily for a moment, then shecried:

"God bless you, monsieur!"

Mr. Greyne was startled by the abruptness of this pious ejaculation. 

"Why?" he inquired. 

"You are a good man. You, at least, would not condescend to insult afriendless woman by unworthy suspicions. And madame?"

"Mrs. Greyne"--stammered Mr. Greyne--"is convinced that it was Thomas. In fact--in fact, she was the first to say so. "

Mademoiselle Verbena tenderly pressed his hand. 

"Madame is an angel. God bless you both!"

She tottered into her cabin, and, as she shut the door, Mr. Greyne heardthe terrible, laughing hysterics beginning again. 

The next day an influence from Africa seemed spread upon the sea. Calmwere the waters, calm and blue. No cloud appeared in the sky. The fierceactivities of the ship had ceased, and Mademoiselle Verbena tripped uponthe deck at an early hour, to find Mr. Greyne already installed there, and looking positively cheerful. He started up as he perceived her, andchivalrously escorted her to a chair. 

Everyone who has made a voyage knows that the sea breeds intimacies. Bythe time the white houses of Algiers rose on their hill out of the bosomof the waves Mademoiselle Verbena and Mr. Greyne were--shall we say likesister and brother? She had told him all about her childhood in dearParis, the death of her father the count, murmuring the name of LouisXVI. , the poverty of her mother the countess, her own resolve to putaside all aristocratic prejudices and earn her own living. He, inreturn, had related his Eton days, his momentary bias towards themilitia, his marriage--as an innocent youth--with Miss EugeniaHannibal-Barker. Coming to later times, he was led to confide to thetenderhearted Levantine the fact that he hoped to increase his stock ofknowledge while in Africa. Without alluding to "Catherine, " he hintedthat the cure of influenza was not his only reason for foreign travel. 

"I wish to learn something of men and--and women, " he murmured in theshell-like ear presented to him. "Of their passions, their desires, their--their follies. "

"Ah!" cried Mademoiselle Verbena. "Would that I could assist monsieur!But I am only an ignorant little creature, and know nothing of theworld! And I shall be ever at the bedside of mamma. "

"You will give me your address? You will let me inquire for thecountess?"

"Willingly; but I do not know where I shall be. There will be a messageat the wharf. To what hotel goes monsieur?"

"The Grand Hotel. "

"I will write there when I have seen mamma. And meanwhile----"

They were coming into harbour. The heights of Mustapha were visible, thewoods of the Bois de Boulogne, the towers of the Hotel Splendid. 

"Meanwhile, may I beg monsieur not to----" She hesitated. 

"Not to what?" asked Mr. Greyne most softly. 

"Not to let anyone in England know that I am here?"

She paused. Mr. Greyne was silent, wondering. Mademoiselle Verbenadrooped her head. 

"The world is so censorious. It might seem strange that I--thatmonsieur--a man young, handsome, fascinating--the same ship--I have nochaperon--enfin----"

She could get out no more. Her delicacy, her forethought touched Mr. Greyne to tears. 

"Not a word, " he said. "You are right. The world is evil, and, as yousay, I am a--not a word!"

He ventured to press her hand, as an elder brother might have pressedit. For the first time he realised that even to the husband of Mrs. Eustace Greyne the world might attribute--Goodness gracious! What mightnot the militia think, for instance?

He felt himself, for one moment, potentially a dog. 

They parted in a whirl of Arabs on the quay. Mr. Greyne would havestayed to assist Mademoiselle Verbena, but she bade him go. 

She whispered that she thought it "better" that they should not seemto--_enfin!_

"I will write to-morrow, " she murmured. "_Au revoir!_"

On the last word she was gone. Mr. Greyne saw nothing but Arabs andhotel porters. Loneliness seemed to close in on him once more. 

That very evening, after a cup of tea, he presented himself at theoffice of Rook near the Place du Gouvernement. As he came in he felt alittle nervous. There were no tourists in the office, and a courteousclerk with a bright and searching eye at once took him in hand. 

"What can we do for you, sir?"

"I am a stranger here, " began Mr. Greyne. 

"Quite so, sir, quite so. "

The clerk twiddled his business-like thumbs, and looked inquiring. 

"And being so, " Mr. Greyne went on, "it is naturally my wish to see asmuch of the town as possible; as much as possible, you understand. "

"You want a guide? Alphonso!"

Turning, he shouted to an inner room, from which in a moment emerged ashort, stout, swarthy personage with a Jewish nose, a French head, anArab eye with a squint in it, and a markedly Maltese expression. 

"This is an excellent guide, sir, " said the clerk. "He speakstwenty-five languages. "

The stout man, who--as Mr Greyne now perceived--had on a Swiss suitof clothes, a panama hat, and a pair of German elastic-sided boots, confessed in pigeon English, interspersed occasionally with a word ortwo of something which Mr. Greyne took to be Chinese, that such wasundoubtedly the case. 

"What do you wish to see? The mosque, the bazaars, St. Eugène, LaTrappe, 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. Greyne tooka chair opposite to Alphonso, who stood in a Moorish attitude lookingapparently in the direction of Marseilles. 

"I have come here, " said Mr. Greyne, lowering his voice, "with apurpose. ". 

"You wish to see the Belle Fatma. I will arrange it. She receives everyevening in her house in the Rue ------"

"One minute! One minute! You said the something 'Fatma'?"

"The Belle Fatma, the most beautiful woman of Africa. She receivesevery----"

"Pardon me! One moment! Is this lady----"

Mr. Greyne paused. 

"Sir?" said Alphonso, settling his Spanish neck-tie, and gazing steadilytowards Marseilles. 

"Is this lady--well, sinful?"

Alphonso threw up his hands with a wild Asiatic gesture. 

"Sinful! La Belle Fatma! She is a lady of the utmost respectabilityknown to all the town. You go to her house at eight, you take coffeeupon the red sofas, you talk with La Belle, you see the dances and hearthe music. Do not fear, sir; it is good, it is respectable as England, your country----"

"If it is respectable I don't want to see it, " interposed Mr. Greyne. "It would be a waste of time. "

The clerk lifted his head from the ledger, and Alphonso, by means ofstanding with his back almost square to Mr. Greyne, and looking over hisright shoulder, succeeded at length in fixing his eye upon him. 

"I have not travelled here to see respectable things, " continued Mr. Greyne, with a slight blush. "Quite the contrary. "

"Sir?"

The voice of Alphonso seemed to have changed, to have taken on a hard, almost a menacing tone. Mr. Greyne thought of his beloved wife, ofMerrin's exercise-books, and clenched his hands, endeavouring to feel, and to go on, like a militiaman. 

"Quite the contrary, " he repeated firmly; "my object in coming to Africais to--to search about in the Kasbah, and the disrep----"

He choked, recovered himself, and continued: "Disreputable quarters ofAlgiers--hem------"

"What for, sir?"

The voice of Alphonso was certainly changed. 

"What for?" said Mr. Greyne, growing purple. "For frailty. "

"Sir?"

"For frailty--for wickedness. "

A slight cackle emanated from the ledger, but immediately died away. Adead silence reigned in the office, broken only by the distant sound ofthe sea, and by the hard breathing of Alphonso, who had suddenly begunto pant. 

"I wish to go to all the wicked places--_all!_"

The ledger cackled again more audibly. Mr. Greyne felt a pricklingsensation run over him, but the thought of "Catherine" nerved him tohis awful task. 

"It is my wife's express desire that I should do so, " he addeddesperately, quite forgetting Mrs. Greyne's injunction to keep her darkin his desire to stand well with Rook's. 

The ledger went off into a hyena imitation, and Alphonso, turningstill more away from Mr. Greyne, so as to get the eye fuller upon him, exclaimed, in a mixture of Aryan and Eurasian languages:

"Sir, I am a respectable, unmarried man. I was born in Buenos Ayres, educated in Smyrna, came of age in Constantinople, and have practised asguide in Bagdad and other particular cities. I refuse to have anythingto do with you and your wife. "

So saying, he bounced into the inner room, and banged the door, whilethe ledger gave itself up to peals of merriment, and Mr. Greyne totteredforth upon the sea-front, bathed in a cold perspiration, and feelingmore guilty than a murderer. 

It was a staggering blow. He leaned over the stone parapet of the lowwall, and let the soft breezes from the bay flit through his hair, andthought of Mrs. Greyne spurned by Alphonso. What was he to do? Kickedout of Rook's, to whom could he apply? There must be wickedness inAlgiers, but where? He saw none, though night was falling and stoutFrenchmen were already intent upon their absinthe. 

"Does monsieur wish to see the Kasbah to-night?"

Was it a voice from heaven? He turned, and saw standing beside him atall, thin, audacious-looking young man, with coal-black moustaches, magnificent eyes, and an air that was half-languid, half-serpentine. 

"Who are you?"

"I am a guide, monsieur. Here are my certificates. "

He produced from the inner pocket of his coat a large bundle of dirtypapers. 

"If monsieur will deign to look them over. "

But Mr. Greyne waved them away. What did he care for Certificates?Here was a guide to African frailty. That was sufficient. He was in adesperate mood, and uttered desperate words. 

"Look here, " he said rapidly, "are you wicked?"

"Very wicked, monsieur. "

"Good!"

"Wicked, monsieur. "

"Right!"

"Wrong, monsieur. "

"I mean that it is good for me that you are wicked. "

"Monsieur is very good. "

"Yes; but I wish to be--that is, to see the other thing. Can youundertake to show me everything shocking in Algiers?"

"But certainly, monsieur. For a consideration. "

"Name your price. "

"Two hundred pounds, monsieur. "

Mr. Greyne started. It seemed a high figure. 

"Monsieur thought it would be more? I make a special price, becauseI have taken a fancy to monsieur. I remove fifty pounds. Monsieur, ofcourse, will pay all expenses. "

"Of course, of course. "

It was no time to draw back. 

"How long will it take?"

"To see all the shocking--?"

"Precisely. "

"There is a good deal. A fortnight, three weeks. It depends on monsieur. If he is strong, and can do without sleep----"

"We shall have to be up at night?"

"Naturally. "

"I shall go to bed during the day, and get through it in a fortnight. "

"Perfectly. "

"Be at the Grand Hotel to-night at ten o'clock precisely. "

"At ten o'clock I will be there. Monsieur will pay a little in advance?"

"Here are twenty pounds, " cried Mr. Greyne recklessly. 

The audacious-looking young man took the notes with decision, made agraceful salute, and disappeared in the direction of the quay, while Mr. Greyne walked to his hotel, flushed with excitement, and feeling likethe most desperate criminal in Africa. If the militia could see him now!

At dinner he drank a bottle of champagne, and afterwards smoked a strongcigar over his coffee and liqueur. As he was finishing these franticenjoyments the head waiter--a personage bearing a strong resemblanceto an enlarged edition of Napoleon the First--approached him ratherfurtively, and, bending down, whispered in his ear:

"A gentleman has called to take monsieur to the Kasbah. "

Mr. Greyne started, and flushed a guilty red. 

"I will come in a moment, " he answered, trying to assume a nonchalantvoice, such as that in which a hardened major of dragoons announces thatin his time he was a devil of a fellow. 

The head waiter retired, looking painfully intelligent, and Mr. Greynesprang upstairs, seized a Merrin's exercise-book and a lead pencil, puton a dark overcoat, popped one of the Springfield revolvers into thepocket of it, and hastened down into the hall of the hotel, where theaudacious-looking young man was standing, surrounded by saucychasseurs in gay liveries and peaked caps, by Algerian waiters, and byGerman-Swiss porters, all of whom were smiling and looking choke-full ofsympathetic comprehension. 

"Ha!" said Mr. Greyne, still in the major's, voice. "There you are!"

"Behold me, monsieur. "

"That's good. "

"Wicked, monsieur. "

"Well, let's be off to the mosque. "

One of the chasseurs--a child of eight who was thankful that he knew nobetter--burst into a piping laugh. The waiters turned hastily away, andthe German-Swiss porters retreated to the bureau with some activity. 

"To the mosque--precisely, monsieur, " returned the guide, with completeself-possession. 

They stepped out at once upon the pavement, where a carriage was inwaiting. 

"Where are we going?" inquired Mr. Greyne in an anxious voice. 

"We are going to the heights to see the Ouled, " replied the guide. "_Enavant!_"

He bounded in beside Mr. Greyne, the coachman cracked his whip, thehorses trotted. They were off upon their terrible pilgrimage. 

V

On the following afternoon, at a quarter to three, when Mr. Greynecame down to breakfast, he found, lying beside the boiled eggs, anote directed to him in a feminine handwriting. He tote it open withtrembling fingers, and read as follows:--

 1 Rue du Petit Neore. 

 Dear Monsieur, --I am here. Poor mamma is in the hospital. I am allowed to see her twice a day. At all other times I remain alone, praying and weeping. I trust that monsieur has passed a good night. For me, I was sleepless, thinking of mamma. I go now to church. 

 Adele Verbena. 

He laid this missive down, and sighed deeply. How strangely innocent itwas, how simple, how sincere! There were white souls in Algiers--yes, even in Algiers. Strange that he should know one! Strange that he, whohad filled a Merrin's exercise-book with tiny writing, and had evenoverflowed on to the cover after "crossing" many pages, should receivethe child-like confidences of one! "I go now to the church. " Tears cameinto his eyes as he laid the letter down beside a pile of buttered toastover which the burning afternoon sun of Africa was shining. 

"Monsieur will take milk and sugar?"

It was the head waiter's Napoleonic voice. Mr. Greyne controlledhimself. The man was smiling intelligently. All the staff of the hotelsmiled intelligently at Mr. Greyne to-day--the waiters, the porters, thechasseurs. The child of eight who was thankful that he knew no betterhad greeted him with a merry laugh as he came down to breakfast, and an"_Oh, là, là!_" which had elicited a rebuke from the proprietor. Indeed, a wave of human sympathy flowed upon Mr. Greyne, whose ashy face anddull, washed-out eyes betrayed the severity of his night-watch. 

"Monsieur will feel better after a little food. "

The head waiter handed the buttered toast with bland majesty, at thesame time shooting a reproving glance at the little chasseur, who waspeeping from behind the door at the afternoon breakfaster. 

"I feel perfectly well, " replied Mr. Greyne, with an attempt atcheerfulness. 

"Still, monsieur will feel much better after a little food. "

Mr. Greyne began to toy with an egg. 

"You know Algiers?" he asked. 

"I was born here, monsieur. If monsieur wishes to explore to-night againthe Kasbah I can----"

But Mr. Greyne stopped him with a gesture that was almost fierce. 

"Where is the Rue du Petit Nègre?"

"Monsieur wishes to go there to-night?"

"I wish to go there now, directly I have finished break--lunch. "

The head waiter's face was wreathed with humorous surprise. 

"But monsieur is wonderful--superb! Never have I seen a traveller likemonsieur!"

He gazed at Mr. Greyne with tropical appreciation. 

"Monsieur had better have a carriage. The street is difficult to find. "

"Order me one. I shall start at once. "

Mr. Greyne pushed away the sunlit buttered toast, and got up. 

"Monsieur is superb. Never have I seen a traveller like monsieur!"Napoleon's voice was almost reverent. He hastened out, followed slowlyby Mr. Greyne. 

"A carriage for monsieur! Monsieur desires to go to the Rue du PetitNègre!"

The staff of the hotel gathered about the door as if to speed a royalpersonage, and Mr. Greyne noticed that their faces too were touchedwith an almost startled reverence. He stepped into the carriage, signedfeebly, but with determination, to the Arab coachman, and was drivenaway, followed by a parting "_Oh, là là!_" from the chasseur, uttered ina voice that sounded shrill with sheer amazement. 

Through winding, crowded streets he went, by bazaars and Moorishbath-houses, mosques and Catholic churches, barracks and cafés, till atlength the carriage turned into an alley that crept up a steep hill. Itmoved on a little way, and then stopped. 

"Monsieur must descend here, " said the coachman. "Mount the steps, goto the right and then to the left. Near the summit of the hill he willfind the Rue du Petit Nègre. Shall I wait for monsieur?"

"Yes. "

The coachman began to make a cigarette, while Mr. Greyne set forthto follow his directions, and, at length, stood before an arch, whichopened into a courtyard adorned with orange-trees in tubs, and pavedwith blue and white tiles. Around this courtyard was a three-storeyhouse with a flat roof, and from a bureau near a little fountain a stoutFrenchwoman called to demand his business. He asked for MademoiselleVerbena, and was at once shown into a saloon lined with chairs coveredwith yellow rep, and begged to take a seat. In two minutes MademoiselleVerbena appeared, drying her eyes with a tiny pocket-handkerchief, andforcing a little pathetic smile of welcome. Mr. Greyne clasped her handin silence. She sat down in a rep chair at his right, and they looked ateach other. 

"_Mais, mon Dieu!_ How monsieur is changed!" cried the Levantine. "Ifmadame could see him! What has happened to monsieur?"

"Miss Verbena, " replied Mr. Greyne, "I have seen the Ouled on theheights. "

A spasm crossed the Levantine's face. She put her handkerchief to it fora moment. "What is an Ouled?" she inquired, withdrawing it. 

"I dare not tell you, " he replied solemnly. 

"But indeed I wish to know, so that I may sympathise with monsieur. "

Mr. Greyne hesitated, but his heart was full; he felt the need ofsympathy. He looked at Mademoiselle Verbena, and a great longing tounburden himself overcame him. 

"An Ouled, " he replied, "is a dancing-girl from the desert of Sahara. "

"_Mon Dieu!_ How does she dance? Is it a valse, a polka, a quadrille?""No. Would that it were!" And Mr. Greyne, unable further to governhis desire for full expression, gave Mademoiselle Verbena a slightlyBowdlerised description of the dances of the desert. She heard him withamazement. 

"How terrible!" she exclaimed when he had finished. "And does one paymuch to see such steps of the Evil One?"

"I gave her twenty pounds. Abdallah Jack----"

"Abdallah Jack?"

"My guide informed me that was the price. He tells me it is againstthe law, and that each time an Ouled dances she risks being thrown intoprison. "

"Poor lady! How sad to have to earn one's bread by such devices, insteadof by teaching to the sweet little ones of monsieur the sympatheticgrammar of one's native country. "

Mr. Greyne was touched to the quick by this allusion, which brought, asin a vision, the happy home in Belgrave Square before him. 

"You are an angel!" he exclaimed. 

Mademoiselle Verbena shook her head. 

"And this poor Ouled, you will go to her again?

"Yes. It seems that she is in communication with all the--the--well, all the odd people of Algiers, and that one can only get at them throughher. "

"Indeed?"

"Abdallah Jack tells me that while I am here I should pay her a weeklysalary, and that, in return, I shall see all the terrible ceremonies ofthe Arabs. I have decided to do so------

"Ah, you have decided!"

For a moment Mr. Greyne started. There seemed a new sound inMademoiselle Verbena's voice, a gleam in her dark brown eyes. 

"Yes, " he said, looking at her in wonder. "But I have not yet toldAbdallah Jack. "

The Levantine looked gently sad again. 

"Ah, " she said in her usual pathetic voice, "how my heart bleeds forthis poor Ouled. By the way, what is her name?"

"Aishoush. "

"She is beautiful?"

"I hardly know. She was so painted, so tattooed, so very--so verydifferent from Mrs. Eustace Greyne. "

"How sad! How terrible! Ah, but you must long for the dear bonnetstrings of madame?"

Did he? As she spoke Mr. Greyne asked himself the question. Shocked ashe was, fatigued by his researches, did he wish that he were back againin Belgrave Square, drinking barley water, pasting notices of his wife'sachievements into the new album, listening while she read aloud fromthe manuscript of her latest novel? He wondered, and--how strange, howalmost terrible--he was not sure. 

"Is it not so?" murmured Mademoiselle Verbena. 

"Naturally I miss my beloved wife, " said Mr. Greyne with a certainawkwardness. "How is your poor, dear mother?"

Tears came at once into the Levantine's eyes. 

"Very, very ill, monsieur. Still there is a chance--just a chance thatshe may not die. Ah, when I sit here all alone in this strange place, Ifeel that she will perish, that soon I shall be quite deserted in thiscruel, cruel world!"

The tears began to flow down her cheeks with determination. Mr. Greynewas terribly upset. 

"You must cheer up, " he exclaimed. "You must hope for the best. "

"Sitting here alone, how can I?"

She sobbed. 

"Sitting here alone--very true!"

A sudden thought, a number of sudden thoughts, struck him. 

"You must not sit here alone. "

"Monsieur!"

"You must come out. You must drive. You must see the town, distractyourself. "

"But how? Can a--a girl go about alone in Algiers?"

"Heaven forbid! No; I will escort you. "

"Monsieur!"

A smile of innocent, girlish joy transformed her face, but suddenly shewas grave again. 

"Would it be right, _convenable?_"

Mr. Greyne was reckless. The dog potential rose up in him again. 

"Why not? And, besides, who knows us here? Not a soul. "

"That is true. "

"Put on your bonnet. Let us start at once!"

"But I do not wear the bonnet. I am not like madame. "

"To be sure. Your hat. "

And as she flew to obey him, Mr. Eustace Greyne found himself impiouslythanking the powers that be for this strange chance of going on thespree with a toque. When Mademoiselle Verbena returned he was lookingalmost rakish. He eyed her neat black hat and close-fitting black jacketwith a glance not wholly unlike that of a militiaman. In her hand sheheld a vivid scarlet parasol. 

"Monsieur, " she said, "it is terrible, this _ombrelle_, when mamma liesat death's door. But what can I do? I have no other, and cannot affordto buy one. The sun is fierce. I dare not expose myself to it without ashelter. "

She seemed really distressed as she opened the parasol, and spread thevivid silk above her pretty black-clothed figure; but Mr. Greyne thoughtthe effect was brilliant, and ventured to say so. As they passed thebureau by the fountain on their way out the stout Frenchwoman cast anapproving glance at Mademoiselle Verbena. 

"The little rat will not see much more of the little negro now, " shemurmured to herself. "After all the English have their uses. "

VI

In Belgrave Square Mrs. Eustace Greyne was beginning to get slightlyuneasy. Several things combined to make her so. In the first place, Mademoiselle Verbena had never returned from her mother's Parisianbedside, and had not even written a line to say how the dear parent was, and when the daughter's nursing occupation was likely to be over. In thesecond place, Adolphus, in consequence of the Levantine's absence, hadtotally lost his grasp, always uncertain, upon the irregular verbs. In the third place, Darrell, the valet, had returned to London the dayafter his departure from it, minus not only his master's dressing-case, but minus everything he possessed. His story was that, while waiting atthe station in Paris for his master's appearance, he had entered intoconversation with an agreeable stranger, and been beguiled into theacceptance of an absinthe at a café just outside. After swallowingthe absinthe he remembered nothing more till he came to himself in adeserted waiting-room at the Gare du Nord, back to which he had beenmysteriously conveyed. In his pocket was no money, no watch, onlythe return half of a second-class ticket from London to Paris. He, therefore, wandered about the streets till morning broke, and then cameback to London a crestfallen and miserable man, bemoaning his untowardfate, and cursing "them blasted Frenchies" from the bottom of hisBritish heart. 

Mrs. Greyne's anxiety on her husband's behalf, now that he was thrownabsolutely unattended upon the inhospitable shores of Africa, was notlessened by a fourth circumstance, which, indeed, worried her farmore than all the others put together. This was Mr. Greyne's prolongedabsence from her side. Precisely one calendar month had now elapsedsince he had buried his face in her prune bonnet strings at VictoriaStation, and there seemed no prospect of his return. He wrote to her, indeed, frequently, and his letters were full of wistful regret andlonging to be once more safe in the old homestead in Belgrave Square, drinking barley water, and pasting Romeike & Curtice notices into thenew album which lay, gaping for him, upon the table of his sanctum. Buthe did not come; nay, more, he wrote plainly that there was no prospectof his coming for the present. It seemed that the wickedness of Africawas very difficult to come at. It did not lie upon the surface, but washidden far down in depths to which the ordinary tourist found it almostimpossible to penetrate. In his numerous letters Mr. Greyne describedhis heroic and unremitting exertions to fill the Merrin's note-bookswith matter that would be suitable for the purging of humanity. He setout in full his interview with Alphonso at the office of Rook, andhis definite rejection by that cosmopolitan official. According tothe letters, after this event he had spent no less than a fortnightsearching in vain for any sign of wickedness in the Algerian capital. Hehad frequented the cafés, the public bars, the theatres, the churches. He had been to the Velodrome. He had sat by the hour in the Jardind'Essai. At night he had strolled in the fairs and hung about thecircus. Yet nowhere had he been able to perceive anything but themost innocent pleasure, the simple merriment of a gay and guilelesspopulation to whom the idea of crime seemed as foreign as the idea ofsinging the English national anthem. 

During the third week it was true that matters--always according to Mr. Greyne's letters home--slightly improved. While walking near the quay, in active search for nautical outrage, he saw an Arab dock labourer, who had been over-smoking kief, run amuck, and knock down a couple ofrespectable snake-charmers who were on the point of embarkation forTunis with their reptiles. This incident had filed up a half-score ofpages in exercise-book number one, and had flooded Mr. Greyne with hopeand aspiration. But it was followed by a stagnant lull which had lastedfor days and had only been disturbed by the trifling incident ofa gentleman in the Jewish quarter of the town setting fire to aneighbour's bazaar, in the very natural endeavour to find a Frenchhalf-penny which he had chanced to drop among a bale of carpets whilelooking in to drive a soft bargain. As Mrs. Greyne wired to Algiers, such incidents were of no value to "Catherine. "

A very active interchange of views had gone on between the husband andwife as time went by, and the book was at a standstill. At first Mrs. Greyne contented herself with daily letters, but latterly she hadresorted to wires, explanatory, condemnatory, hortatory, and evencomminatory. She began bitterly to regret her husband's well-proveninnocence, and wished she had despatched an uncle of hers by marriage, an ex-captain in the Royal Navy, who, she began to feel certain, wouldhave been able to find far more frailty in Algiers than poor Eustace, inhis simplicity, would ever come at. She even began to wish that she hadcrossed the sea in person, and herself boldly set about the ingatheringof the material for which she was so impatiently waiting. 

Her uneasiness was brought to a head by a letter from a house agent, stating that the corner mansion in Park Lane next to the Duke ofEbury's was being nibbled at by a Venezuelan millionaire. She wired thisterrible fact at once to Africa, adding, at an enormous expenditure ofcash:

 This will never do. You are too innocent, and cannot see what lies before you. Obtain assistance. Go to the British consul. 

Mr. Greyne at once cabled back:

 Am following your advice. Will wire result. Regret my innocence, but am distressed that you should so utterly condemn it. 

Upon receiving this telegram at night, before a lonely dinner, Mrs. Eustace Greyne was deeply moved. She felt she had been hasty. She knewthat to very few women was it given to have a husband so free fromall masculine infirmities as Mr. Greyne. At the same time there was"Catherine, " there was the mansion in Park Lane, there was the Venezuelanmillionaire. She began to feel distracted, and, for the first time inher life, refused to partake of sweetbreads fried in mushroom ketchup, a dish which she had greatly affected from the time when she wrote herfirst short story. While she was in the very act of waving away thisdelicacy a footman came in with a foreign telegram. She opened itquickly, and read as follows:--

 British consul horrified; was ignominiously expelled from consulate; great scandal; am much upset, but will never give in, for your sake. Eustace. 

As the dread meaning of these words penetrated at length to Mrs. Greyne's voluminous brain a deep flush overspread her noble features. She rose from the table with a determination that struck awe to thehearts of the powdered underlings, and, drawing herself up to her fullheight, exclaimed:

"Send Mrs. Forbes at once to my study, if you please--at once, do youunderstand?"

In a moment Mrs. Forbes, who was the great novelist's maid, appeared onthe threshold of the oracle's lair. She was a sober-looking, black-silkpersonage, who always wore a pork-pie cap in the house, and a MotherHubbard bonnet out of it. Having been in service with Mrs. Greyne eversince the latter penned her last minor poetry--Mrs. Greyne had been aminor poet for three years soon after she put her hair up--Mrs. Forbeshad acquired a certain literary expression of countenance and a mannerthat was decidedly prosy. She read a good deal after her supper of anevening, and was wont to be the arbiter when any literary matter wasdiscussed in the servants' hall. 

"Madam?" she said, respectfully entering the room, and bending thepork-pie cap forward in an attentive attitude. 

Mrs. Greyne was silent for a moment. She appeared to be thinking deeply. Mrs. Forbes gently closed the door, and sighed. It was nearly hersupper-time, and she felt pensive. 

"Madam?" she said again. 

Mrs. Greyne looked up. A strange fire burned in her large eyes. 

"Mrs. Forbes, " she said at length, with weighty deliberation, "themission of woman in the world is a great one. "

"Very true, madam. My own words to Butler Phillips no longer ago thandinner this midday. "

"It is the protecting of man--neither more nor less. "

"My own statement, madam, to Second Footman Archibald this self-same dayat the tea-board. "

"Man needs guidance, and looks for it to us--or rather to me. "

At the last word Mrs. Forbes pinched her lips together, and appearedolder than her years and sourer than her normal temper. 

"At this moment, Mrs. Forbes, " continued Mrs. Greyne, with risingfervour, "he looks for it to me from Africa. From that dark continenthe stretches forth his hands to me in humble supplication. "

"Mr. Greyne has not been taken with another of his bilious attacks, Ihope, madam?" said Mrs. Forbes. 

Mrs. Greyne smiled. The ignorance of the humbly born entertained her. Itwas so simple, so transparent. 

"You fail to understand me, " she answered. "But never mind; others havedone the same. "

She thought of her reviewers. Mrs. Forbes smiled. She also could beentertained. 

"Madam?" she inquired once more after a pause. 

"I shall leave for Africa to-morrow morning, " said Mrs. Greyne. "Youwill accompany me. "

There was a dead silence. 

"You will accompany me. Do you understand? Obtain assistance fromthe housemaids in the packing. Select my quietest gowns, my leastconspicuous bonnets. I have my reasons for wishing, while journeying toAfrica and remaining there, to pass, if possible, unnoticed. "

Again there was a pause. Mrs. Greyne looked up at Mrs. Forbes, andobserved a dogged expression upon her countenance. 

"What is the matter?" she asked the maid. 

"Do we go by Paris, madam?" said Mrs. Forbes. 

"Certainly. "

"Then, madam, I'm very sorry, but I couldn't risk it, not if it was everso----"

"Why not? Why this fear of Lutetia?"

"Madam, I'm not afraid of any Lutetia as ever wore apron, but to goto Paris to be drugged with absint, and put away in a third-classwaiting-room like a package--I couldn't madam, not even if I have toleave your service. "

Mrs. Greyne recognised that the episode of the valet had struck home tothe lady's maid. 

"But you will not leave my side. "

"They will absint you, madam. "

"But you will travel first in a sleeping-car. "

Mrs. Forbes put up her hand to her pork-pie cap, as if considering. 

"Very well, madam, to oblige you I will undergo it, " she said at length. "But I would not do the like for another living lady. "

"I will raise your wages. You are a faithful creature. "

"Does master expect us, madam?" asked Mrs. Forbes as she prepared toretire. 

A bright and tender look stole into Mrs. Greyne's intellectual face. 

"No, " she replied. 

She turned her large and beaming eyes full upon the maid. 

"Mrs. Forbes, " she said, with an amount of emotion that was very rare inher, "I am going to tell you a great truth. "

"Madam?" said Mrs. Forbes respectfully. 

"The sweetest moments of life, those which lift man nearest heaven, andmake him thankful for the great gift of existence, are sometimes thosewhich are unforeseen. "

She was thinking of Mr. Greyne's ecstasy when, upon the inhospitableAfrican shore where he was now enduring such tragic misfortunes, heperceived the majestic form of his loved one--his loved one whom hebelieved to be in Belgrave Square--coming towards him to soothe, tocomfort, to direct. She brushed away a tear. 

"Go, Mrs. Forbes, " she said. 

And Mrs. Forbes retired, smiling. 

An epic might well be written on the great novelist's journey to Africa, upon her departure from Charing Cross, shrouded in a black gauze veil, her silent thought as the good ship _Empress_ rode cork-like upon theChannel waves, her ascetic lunch--a captain's biscuit and a glass ofwater--at the buffet at Calais, her arrival in Paris when the shadesof night had fallen. An epic might well be written. Perhaps some day itwill be, by herself. 

In Paris she suffered a good deal on account of Mrs. Forbes, who, in herfear of "ab-sint, " became hysterical, and caused not a little annoyanceby accusing various inoffensive French travellers of nefarious designsupon her property and person. In the Gulf of Lyons she suffered evenmore, and as, unluckily, the wind was contrary and the sea prodigiousduring the whole of the passage across the Mediterranean, both she andMrs. Forbes arrived at Algiers four hours late, in a condition which maybe more easily imagined than properly described. 

Genius in thrall to the body, and absolutely dependent upon greenchartreuse for its flickering existence, is no subject for even asympathetic pen. Sufficient to say that, when the ship came in under thelights of Algiers, the crowd of shouting Arabs was struck to silence bythe spectacle of Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes endeavouring to disembark, in bonnets that were placed seaward upon the head instead of landward, unbuttoned boots, and gowns soaked with the attentions of the waves. 

After being gently and permanently relieved of their light hand-baggage, the mistress and maid, who seemed greatly overwhelmed by the sightof Africa, and who moved--or rather were carried--as in a dream, wereplaced reverently in the nearest omnibus, and conveyed to the farthesthotel, which was situated upon a lofty hill above the town. Here aslightly painful scene took place. 

Having been assisted by the staff into a Moorish hall, Mrs. Greyneinquired in a reticent voice for her husband, and was politely informedthat there was no person of the name of Greyne in the hotel. For amoment she seemed threatened with dissolution, but with a supreme effortcalling upon her mighty brain she surmised that her husband was possiblypassing under a pseudonym in order to throw America off the scent. She, therefore, demanded to have the guests then present in the hotel at onceparaded before her. As there was some difficulty about this--the guestsbeing then at dinner--she whispered for the visitors' book, thinkingthat, perchance, Mr. Greyne had inscribed his name there, and that thestaff, being foreign, did not recognise it as murmured by herself. Thebook was brought, upon its cover in golden letters the words: "HôtelLoubet et Majestic. " Then explanations of a somewhat disagreeable natureoccurred, and Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes, after a heavy payment hadbeen exacted for their conveyance to a place they had desired not togo to, were carried forth, and consigned to another vehicle, which atlength brought them, on the stroke of nine, to the Grand Hotel. 

Having been placed reverently in the brilliantly-lighted hall, they weresurrounded by the proprietor, the _maître d'hôtel_ and his assistants, the porters, and the chasseurs, with all of whom Mr. Greyne wasnow familiar. Brandy and water having been supplied, together withsmelling-salts and burnt feathers, Mrs. Greyne roused herself from anacute attack of lethargy, and asked for Mr. Greyne. A joyous smile ranround the circle. 

"Monsieur Greyne, " said the proprietor, "who is living here for thewinter?" 4

"Mr. Eustace Greyne, " murmured the great novelist, grasping her bonnetwith both hands. 

The _maître d'hôtel_ drew nearer. 

"Madame wishes to see Monsieur Greyne?" he asked. 

"I do--at once. "

A blessed consciousness of Mother Earth was gradually beginning to stealover her. She even strove feebly to sit up on her chair, a German-Swissporter of enormous size assisting her. 

"But Monsieur Greyne is out. "

"Out?"

"Yes, madame. Monsieur Greyne is always out at night. "

The eyes of the little chasseur who knew no better began to twinkle. Mrs. Forbes gave a slight cough. Tears filled the novelist's eyes. 

"God bless my Eustace!" she murmured, deeply touched by this evidence ofhis devotion to her interests. 

"Madame says----" asked the proprietor. 

"Where does Mr. Greyne go?" inquired the novelist. 

"To the Kasbah, madame. "

"I knew it!" cried Mrs. Greyne, with returning animation. "I knew itwould be so!"

"Madame is acquainted with Monsieur Greyne?" said the _maître d'hôtel_, while the little crowd gathered more closely about the wave-worn group. 

"I am Mrs. Eustace Greyne, " returned the great novelist recklessly. "Iam the wife of Mr. Eustace Greyne. "

There was a moment of supreme silence. Then a loud, an even piercing"_Oh, là, là, _ broke upon the air, succeeded instantaneously by a burstof laughter that seemed to thrill with all the wild blessedness ofboyhood. It came, of course, from the little chasseur; it came, andstayed. Nothing could stop it, and eventually the happy child had to becarried forth upon the sea-front to enjoy his innocent mirth at leisureand in solitude beneath the African stars. Mrs. Greyne did not noticehis disappearance. She was intent upon important matters. 

"At what time does Mr. Greyne usually set forth?" she asked of theproprietor, whose face now bore a strangely twisted appearance, as ifafflicted by a toothache. 

"Immediately after dinner, madame, if not before. Of late it hasgenerally been before. "

"And he stays out late?"

"Very late, madame. "

The twisted appearance began to seem infectious. It was visible upon thefaces of most of those surrounding Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes. Indeed, even the latter showed some signs of it, although the large shadow castover her features by the hind side of her Mother Hubbard bonnet to someextent disguised them from the public view. 

"Till what hour?" pursued Mrs. Greyne in a voice of almost yearningtenderness and pity. 

"Well, madame"--the proprietor displayed some slight confusion--"Ireally can hardly say. The _maître d'hôtel_ can perhaps inform you. "

Mrs. Greyne turned her ox-like eyes upon the enlarged edition ofNapoleon the First. 

"Monsieur Greyne seldom returns before seven or eight o'clock in themorning, madame. He then retires to bed, and comes down to breakfast atabout four o'clock in the afternoon. "

Mrs. Greyne was touched to the very quick. Her husband was sacrificinghis rest, his health--nay, perhaps even his very life--in her service. It was well she had come, well that a period was to be put to theseterrible researches. They should be stopped at once, even this verynight. Better a thousand literary failures than that her husband'sexistence should be placed in jeopardy. She rose suddenly from herchair, tottered, gasped, recovered herself, and spoke. 

"Prepare dinner for me at once, " she said, "and order a carriage and acompetent guide to be before the door in half-an-hour. "

"Madame is going out? But madame is ill, tired!"

"It matters not. "

"Where does madame wish to go?"

"I am going to the Kasbah to find my husband. "

"I will escort madame. "

The proprietor, the _maître d'hôtel_, the waiters, the porters, thechasseurs, Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes, all turned about to face thedetermined speaker. 

And there before them, his dark eyes gleaming, his long moustachesbristling fiercely--here stood Abdallah Jack. 

VII

Man is a self-deceiver. It must, therefore, ever be a doubtful pointwhether Mr. Eustace Greyne, during his residence in Africa, absolutelylost sight of his sense of duty; whether, beguiled by the livelyattentions of a fiercely foreign town, he deliberately resolved totake his pleasure regardless of consequences and of the sacred ties ofBelgrave Square. We prefer to think that some vague idea of combiningtwo duties--that which he owed to himself and that which he owed to Mrs. Greyne--moved him in all he did, and that the subterfuge into whichhe was undoubtedly led was not wholly selfish, not wholly criminal. Nevertheless, that he had lied to his beloved wife is certain. Evenwhile she sat over a cutlet and a glass of claret in the white-and-golddining-room of the Grand Hotel, preparatory to her departure to theKasbah with Abdallah Jack, the dozen of Merrin's exercise-books layupstairs in Mr. Greyne's apartments filled to the brim with Africanfrailty. Already there was material enough in their pages to furnishforth a library of "Catherines. " Yet Mr. Greyne still lingered far fromhis home, and wired to that home fabricated accounts of the singularinnocence of Algiers. He even allowed it to be supposed that hisown innocence stood in the way of his fulfilment of Mrs. Greyne'sbehests--he who could now have given points in knowledge of the world towhole regiments of militiamen!

It was not right, and, doubtless, he must stand condemned by everymoralist. But let it not be forgotten that he had fallen under theinfluence of a Levantine. 

Mademoiselle Verbena's mother, hidden in some unnamed hospital ofAlgiers, appeared to be one of those ingenious elderly ladies who canhover indefinitely upon the brink of death without actually dying. During the whole time that Mr. Greyne had been in Africa her state hadbeen desperate, yet she still clung to life. As her daughter said, shepossessed extraordinary vitality, and this vitality seemed to have beeninherited by her child. Despite her grave anxieties Mademoiselle Verbenasucceeded in sustaining a remarkable cheeriness, and even a fascinatingvivacity, when in the company of others. As she said to Mr. Greyne, she did not think it right to lay her burdens upon the shoulders of herneighbours. She, therefore, forced herself to appear contented, even atvarious moments gay, when she and Mr. Greyne were lunching, dining, orsupping together, were driving upon the front, sailing upon the azurewaters of the bay, riding upon the heights beyond El-Biar, or, ensconcedin a sumptuous private box, listening to the latest French farce at oneor another of the theatres. Only one day, when they had driven out tothe monastery at La Trappe de Staouëli, did a momentary cloud descendupon her piquant features, and she explained this by the frankconfession that she had always wished to become a nun, but had beenhindered from following her vocation by the necessity of earning moneyto support her aged parents. Mr. Greyne had never seen the Ouled sincehis first evening in Algiers, but he still paid her a weekly salary, through Abdallah Jack, who explained to him that the interesting lady, in a discreet retirement, was perpetually occupied in arranging theexhibitions of African frailty at which he so frequently assisted. She was, in fact, earning her liberal salary. Mademoiselle Verbenaand Abdallah Jack had met on several occasions, and Mr. Greyne hadintroduced the latter to the former as his guide, and had generouslypraised his abilities; but in Mademoiselle Verbena took very littlenotice of him, and, as time went on, Abdallah Jack seemed to conceivea most distressing dislike of her. On several occasions he advised Mr. Greyne not to frequent her company so assiduously, and when Mr. Greyneasked him to explain the meaning of his monitions he took refuge invague generalities and Eastern imagery. He had a profound contemptfor women as companions, which grieved Mr. Greyne's Western ideas, and evidently thought that Mademoiselle Verbena ought to be clappedforthwith into a long veil, and put away in a harem behind an irongrille. When Mr. Greyne explained the English point of view AbdallahJack took refuge in a sulky silence; but during the week immediatelypreceding the arrival of Mrs. Greyne his temper had become activelybad, and Mr. Greyne began seriously to consider whether it would notbe better to pay him a last _douceur_, and tell him to go about hisbusiness. 

Before doing this, however, Mr. Greyne desired to have one moreinterview with the mysterious Ouled on the heights, to whom he owed theknowledge which would henceforth enable him to cut out the militia. Hesaid so to Abdallah Jack. The latter agreed sulkily to arrange it;and matters so fell out that on the night of Mrs. Greyne's arrivalher husband was seated in a room in one of the remotest houses of theKasbah, watching the Ouled's mysterious evolutions, while MademoiselleVerbena--as she herself had informed Mr. 4 Greyne--sat in the hospital bythe bedside of her still dying mother. Abdallah Jack had apparently beenmost anxious to assist at Mr. Greyne's interview with the Ouled, butMr. Greyne had declined to allow this. The evil temper of the guide wasbeginning to get thoroughly upon his employer's nerves, and even thenatural desire to have an interpreter at hand was overborne by thedislike of Abdallah Jack's morose eyes and sarcastic speeches aboutwomen. Moreover, the Ouled spoke a word or two of uncertain French. 

Thus, therefore, things fell out, and such was the precise situationwhen Mrs. Greyne flicked a crumb from her chocolate brocade gown, tiedher bonnet strings, and rose from table to set forth to the Kasbah withAbdallah Jack. 

It was a radiant night. In the clear sky the stars shone brilliantly, looking down upon the persistent convulsions of the little chasseur, whohad not yet recovered from his attack of merriment on learning whoMrs. Greyne was. The sea, quite calm now that the great novelist was nolonger upon it, lapped softly along the curving shores of the bay. Thepalm-trees of the town garden where the band plays on warm eveningswaved lazily in the soft and scented breeze. The hooded figures of theArabs lounged against the stone wall that girdles the sea-front. In thebrilliantly-illuminated restaurants the rich French population gatheredabout the little tables, while the withered beggars stared in upon theoyster shells, the champagne bottles, and the feathers in the women'saudacious hats. 

When Mrs. Greyne emerged upon the pavement before the Grand Hotel, attended by Mrs. Forbes and the guide, she paused for a moment, and casta searching glance upon the fairy scene. In this voluptuous evening andstrange environment life seemed oddly dreamlike. She scarcely felt likeMrs. Greyne. Possibly Mrs. Forbes also felt unlike herself, for shesuddenly placed one hand upon her left side, and tottered. Abdallah Jacksupported her. She screamed aloud. 

"Madam!" she said. "It is the vertigo. I am overtook!"

She was really ill; her face, indeed, became the colour of a plover'segg. 

"Let me go to bed, madam, " she implored. "It is the vertigo, madam. Iam overtook!"

Under ordinary circumstances Mrs. Greyne would have prescribed a dose ofKasbah air, but to-night she felt strange, and she wanted strangeness. Mrs. Forbes with the vertigo, in a small carriage, would beinappropriate. She, therefore, bade her retire, mounted into the vehiclewith Abdallah Jack, and was quickly driven away, her bonnet stringsfloating upon the winsome wind. 

"You know my husband?" she asked softly of the guide. 

Abdallah Jack replied in French that he rather thought he did. 

"How is he looking?" continued Mrs. 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, " repliedAbdallah Jack, lighting a cigarette, and wreathing the great novelist inits grey-blue smoke. "He is thin as the Spahi's lance, he is nervous asthe leaves of the eucalyptus-tree when the winds blow from the north. "

Mrs. Greyne was seriously perturbed. 

"Would I had come before!" she murmured, with serious self-reproach. 

"Monsieur Greyne is worse than all the English, " pursued Abdallah Jackin a voice that sounded to Mrs. Greyne decidedly sinister. "He is worsethan the tourists of Rook, who laugh in the doorways of the mosques andtwine in their hair the dried lizards of the Sahara. Even the guideof Rook rejected him. I only would undertake him because I am full ofevil. "

Mrs. Greyne began to feel distinctly uncomfortable, and to wish shehad not been so ready to pander to Mrs. Forbes' vertigo. She stole asidelong glance at her strange companion. The carriage was small. Theend of his bristling black moustache was very near. What he said ofMr. Greyne did not disturb her, because she knew that her Eustace hadsacrificed his reputation to do her service; but what he said abouthimself was not reassuring. 

"I think you must be doing yourself an injustice, " she said in a ratheragitated voice. 

"Madame?"

"I do not believe you are so bad as you imply, " she continued. 

The carriage turned with a jerk out of the brilliantly-lightedthoroughfare that runs along the sea into a narrow side street, crowdedwith native Jews, and dark with shadows. 

"Madame does not know me. "

The exact truth of this observation struck home, like a dagger, to themind of Mrs. Greyne. 

"I am a wicked person, " added Abdallah Jack, with a profound conviction. "That is why Monsieur Greyne chose me as his guide. "

The novelist began to quake. Her chocolate brocade fluttered. Was sheherself to learn at first hand, and on her first evening in Africa, enough about African frailty to last her for the rest of her life? Andhow much more of life would remain to her after her stock of knowledgehad been thus increased? The carriage turned into a second side street, narrower and darker than the last. 

"Are we going right?" she said apprehensively. 

"No, madame; we are going wrong--we are going to the wicked part of thecity. "

"But--but--you are sure Mr. Greyne will be there?"

Abdallah Jack laughed sardonically. 

"Monsieur Greyne is never anywhere else. Monsieur Greyne is wicked as isa mad Touareg of the desert. "

"I don't think you quite understand my husband, " said Mrs. Greyne, feeling in duty bound to stand up for her poor, maligned Eustace. "Whatever he may have done he has done at my special request. "

"Madame says?"

"I say that in all his proceedings while in Algiers Mr. Greyne has beenacting under my directions. "

Abdallah Jack fixed his enormous eyes steadily upon her. 

"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 feelingas if she were being escorted towards the criminal dock by a jailer withPuritan tendencies. 

"Then it is true what they say on the shores of the great canal, " heremarked composedly. 

"What do they say?" inquired Mrs. Greyne. 

"That England is a land of female devils, " returned the guide as thecarriage plunged into a filthy alley, between two rows of blind houses, and began to ascend a steep hill. 

Mrs. Greyne gasped. She opened her lips to protest vigorously, but herhead swam--either from indignation or from fatigue--and she couldnot utter a word. The horses mounted like cats upward into the denseblackness, from which dropped down the faint sounds of squealing musicand of hoarse cries and laughter. The wheels bounded over the stones, sank into the deep ruts, scraped against the sides of the unlightedhouses. And Abdallah Jack sat staring at Mrs. Greyne as an Englishclergyman's wife might stare at the appalling rites of some deadlycannibal encountered in a far-off land, with a stony wonder, a sort ofparalysed curiosity. 

Suddenly the carriage stopped on a piece of waste land covered withsmall pebbles. Abdallah Jack sprang out. 

"Why do we stop?" said Mrs. Greyne, turning as pale as ashes. 

"The carriage can go no farther. Madame must walk. "

Mrs. Greyne began to tremble. 

"We are to leave the coachman?"

"I shall escort madame, alone. "

The great novelist's tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She feltlike a Merrin's exercise-book, every leaf of which was covered withAfrican frailty. However, there was no help for it. She had to descend, and stand among the pebbles. 

"Where are we going?"

Abdallah Jack waved his hand towards a stone rampart dimly seen in thefaint 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 wouldhave given a thousand pounds to have Mrs. Forbes at her side. 

Abdallah Jack grasped her by the hand, and led her ruthlessly forward. Gazing with terror-stricken eyes over the crumbling rampart of theKasbah, she saw the city far below her, the lights of the streets, thelights of the ships in harbour. She heard the music of a bugle, andwished she were a Zouave safe in barracks. She wished she were aGerman-Swiss porter, a merry chasseur--anything but Mrs. Eustace Greyne. One thing alone supported her in this hour of trial, the thought of herhusband's ecstasy when she appeared upon the dread scene of his awfullabours, to tell him that he was released, that he need visit them nomore. 

The alley of the Dead Dervishes is long and winding. To Mrs. Greyne itseemed endless. As she threaded it with faltering step, gripped by thefeverish hand of Abdallah Jack, who now began to display a strange andterrible excitement, she became a centre of curiosity. Unwashed Arabs, rakish Zouaves in blue and red, wandering Jews of various nationalities, unveiled dancing-girls covered with jewels, stared in wonder upon thechocolate brocade and the floating bonnet strings, followed upon herfootsteps, pointing with painted fingers, and making remarks of apersonal nature in French, Arabic, and other unknown tongues. She movedin the midst of a crowd, on and on before lighted interiors from whichwild music flowed. 

"Shall we never be there?" she panted to Abdallah Jack. "My limbs refusetheir office. " She jogged against a Tunisian Jewess in a pointed hat, and rebounded upon an enormous Riff in a tattered sheep-skin. "I can gono farther. "

"We are there! Behold the house of the Ouled!"

As he uttered the last word he burst into a bitter laugh, and drew Mrs. Greyne, now gasping for breath, through an open doorway into a littlehall of imitation marble, with fluted pillars adorned with oilcloth, andwalls hung with imported oleographs. From a chamber on the right, neara winding staircase covered with blue-and-white tiles, came the sound oflaughter, of song, and of a hideous music conveyed to the astonied earby pipes and drums. 

"They are in there!" exclaimed Abdallah Jack, folding his arms, andlooking at Mrs. Greyne. "Go to your husband!"

Mrs. Greyne put her hands to her magnificent forehead, and totteredforward. She reached the door, she pushed it, she entered. There upon awooden dais, surrounded by gilt mirrors and artificial roses, she beheldher husband, in a check suit and a white Homburg hat, performing thewildest evolutions, while opposite him a lady, smothered in colouredsilks and coins, tattooed and painted, dyed and scented, covered withkohl and crowned with ostrich feathers, screamed a nasal chant of theEast, and bounded like an electrified monkey. 

"Eustace!" cried Mrs. Greyne, leaning for support against an oleograph. 

Her husband turned. 

"Eustace!" she cried again. "It is I!"

He stood as if turned to stone. Mrs. Greyne hesitated, started, movedforward to the dais, and stared upon the Ouled, who had also ceased fromdancing, and looked strangely surprised, even confused, by the greatnovelist's intrusion. 

"Miss Verbena!" she exclaimed. "Miss Verbena in Algiers!"

"Eugenia!" said Mr. Greyne in a husky voice, "what is this you say?This lady is the Ouled. "

A sardonic laugh came from the doorway. They turned. There stoodAbdallah Jack. He advanced roughly to the Ouled. 

"Come, " he said angrily. "Have we not earned the money of the stranger?Have we not earned enough? To-morrow you shall marry me as you havepromised, and we will return to our own land, to the canal where you andI were born. And nevermore shall the Levantine instruct the babes ofthe English devils, but dwell veiled and guarded in the harem of hermaster. "

"Mademoiselle Verbena!" said Mr. Greyne in a more husky voice. "But--but--your dying mother?"

"She sleeps, monsieur, in the white sands of Ismailia, beside thebitter lake. I trust that madame can now go on with the respectable'Catherine. '"

And with an ironic reverence to Mrs. Eustace Greyne she placed her handin Abdallah Jack's and vanished from the room. 

"Catherine's Repentance, " published in a gigantic volume not many weeksago, was preceded by Mr. Eustace Greyne's. When last heard of he wasseated in the magnificent library of the corner house in Park Lane nextto the Duke of Ebury's, busily engaged in pasting the newspaper noticesof Mrs. Greyne's greatest work into a superb new album. 

The Abdallah Jacks have returned to the Suez Canal, bearing with thema snug little fortune to be invested in the purchase of a coal wharfat Port Said, and a remarkably handsome crocodile dressing-case, fittedwith gold, and monogrammed with the initials "E. G. "