such
a good judge of men--for she was a judge, I'll swear--that she should
have ever been in love with this sack of lard I was driving to
Nice--well, that did astonish me beyond measure; though it should not
have done so, knowing women as I do, and seeing how old Father Time
does stick his dirty fingers on our idols and make banshees of the best
of them.

I say that I was astonished, but such a feeling soon gave place to
others; and when I brought up my car with a dash to the door of the
hotel, and the gold-laced porter helped the fat old gentleman out,
curiosity took the place of wonder. I became as anxious as a
parlourmaid at a keyhole to know what Madame would have to say to this
twenty-stone husband, and, what particular terms of endearment he would
choose for his reply. Certainly if pleasurable anticipation is to be
denoted by smiles, he found no fault with his present situation, for he
grinned like a gorilla when he got down, and, nodding to me quite
affably, he asked:

"Upon which floor is Madame Clara staying, did you say?"

"The third floor--number 113."

"Ah," says he, adjusting his glasses and turning round to go in, "that
is an unlucky number, my friend," and without another word he entered
the hotel and left me there.

Of course, I didn't expect him to talk to me, was not looking for a tip
from Madame's own husband, but I had expected a question or two; and
when he had departed the porter and I stopped there gossiping a bit,
for it was likely that the car might be wanted again that night--and,
to be truthful, I more than half hoped that Madame would send for me.

"What's up?" asks the porter--he passes for a foreigner, but I happen
to know he was born just off Soho. "What's up, matey?"

"Why," says I, "that's just what I'd like to know myself. Can't you
tell the chambermaid at 113 to find out?"

"The maid's off. Is that old cove licensed?"

"All in order at Scotland Yard," says I. "He's took out a license to
drive, and his papers are passed. That's my missis' husband."

"Oh," he remarked, in a dreamy kind of way, "which one?"

"Why, the gentleman who just went in."

"Poor soul!" says he, in a most aggravating manner, "how fast she do
lose 'em. I wonder who pays for the headstones?"

"Do you know her?" asked I, for his words took me aback.

He shook his head at this, and then scratched it as though he were
trying to think.

"Larst time," he said presently, "larst time she dropped o