was a French Count, and died in a duel. That shows
some French duels are properly carried out. She is awfully rich, and not
engaged. At least, she doesn't wear a ring. She likes tall men. Of
course that's nothing, but I happen to be fond of small women."

"Merely a coincidence," I said, and he looked rather disappointed.

[Illustration: "'SHE LIKES TALL MEN.'"]

"We think curiously alike in a good many directions," he continued. "I
taught her to play deck quoits, and shot a few things for her with my
gun. And she gave me a photograph recently."

"Of herself?" I asked. "Well, no," he admitted, "not exactly that. She
takes pictures sometimes in a little pocket camera. She did one of an
old negro woman--ugly as sin; but it was not so much the subject as the
thought of giving it to me. It argued a friendly feeling--at any rate, a
kindly feeling. Don't it strike you so?"

"Undoubtedly it did. You're a lucky man. How far is she going with us?"

"To St. Thomas. She has a temporary address there, by-the-bye. I know
that too."

"Go in and win at St. Thomas. I believe it is a certainty for you; I do,
indeed."

The Treasure absolutely blushed. He was a very big man indeed, and
produced the largest extent of blush I ever saw.

Then my brother came back, looking extremely grave.

"How is she?" we asked simultaneously.

"Very ill," he answered shortly. "She was all right when we started, and
never better in her life; but, after dinner, she drank half a wineglass
of salt water, and the natural result has been disaster. I understand
some fool urged her to try this as a preventive of _mal-de-mer_. Her
mother thinks it must have been a coarse practical joke, and is going to
speak to the Captain about it. I wouldn't be the man who prescribed that
insane dose for a thousand pounds."

Then an expression of abject dismay stole over the Treasure's face as,
despite his great size, he appeared to shrivel and curl up into nothing.

[Illustration: "HE APPEARED TO SHRIVEL AND CURL UP."]

[Illustration: THE IDLERS CLUB
SUBJECT FOR DISCUSSION
"AWKWARD PREDICAMENTS."]

[Sidenote: The Rev. Dr. Parker pays a visit.]

My "predicament" was first "awkward," then "foolish." "It was all along
of" a woman. I may even say a "woman in white." "I was a pale young
curate" then, but of a dissenting type. Twenty-two years of age. Very
white in the face. Dark brown hair, enough to fill a mattress. Very high
collars,