n on the edge of the Norman coast, to a very fashionable bit
of France--Trouville. As soon as he understood that Mrs. Falconer was
to be in Normandy for the race week, he packed his things and ran down
and put up at the Hotel de Paris. On this occasion the gentleman
followed so fast that he overleaped his goal, and arrived at the
watering-place before the others appeared. Bulstrode took his own
rooms, and in response to a telegram, engaged the Falconers'
apartments. He liked the way the little salon gave on the heavenly
blue sea, and with a nice fancy to make it something more home-like for
his friend to begin with, he filled it with flowers ... ran what
lengths he dared in putting a few rare vases and several pieces of old
Italian damask here and there.

"Falconer," he consoled himself, "will be too taken up with his horses
to notice the _inside_ of anything but a stable! And I shall tell the
others that the hotel proprietor is a collector: most of these Norman
innkeepers are collectors." And, as his idea grew, he went to greater
lengths, with the curiosity shops on either side the Rue de Paris to
tempt him. The result was that when Mrs. Falconer came, she found the
hotel room wonderfully mellow and harmonious, and as a woman who revels
in beauty she responded to its charm. She was delighted, her eyes
sparkled, her cheeks glowed. And Jimmy Bulstrode had a moment of high
happiness as she looked at him and touched with her pretty hands the
flowers he had himself arranged. It was a delightful moment, a moment
that was much to him.

The Falconers arrived with the usual lot of servants and motors and,
moreover, with a racing outfit, for Falconer had decided to enter his
English filly, Bonjour, for the events of August. There was also with
them a Miss Molly Malines and a young sprig of nobility, the Marquis de
Presle-Vaulx, to whom Bulstrode was a trifle paternal.

"He can't, at least, be after Molly's _millions_," he reflected; "he
can't, at any rate, be a _fortune_ hunter, for the girl's face is the
only fortune she has!"

On a bright and beautiful morning, the first of all the days for many
weeks--for Bulstrode reckoned his calendar in broken bits, beginning a
New Year each time he saw his lady again--a bright and beautiful
morning he walked out at the fashionable hour of noon and turned into
the Rue de Paris.

The eyes of many women followed Bulstrode.

Being an early riser, he had already taken a brisk