d all that romantic old horseman
business."

"I suppose so."

"But, don't you see, the horse and armor was only a frame, an
accidental setting, for the romance itself! It's up to date and
practical and sordid and commonplace, you'd say, that puffing thing
with a gasoline engine hidden away in its bowels. It's what we call
machinery. But, supposing, now, instead of holding Monsieur le Duc
Somebody, or Milord So-and-So, or Signor Comte Somebody-Else, with his
wife or his mistress--I say, supposing it held--well, my young sister
Alice, whom I left so sedately contented at Brighton! Supposing it
held my young sister, running away with an Indian rajah!"

"And you would call that romance?"

"Exactly!"

Durkin turned and looked at the approaching car.

"While, as a matter of fact," he continued, with his exasperatingly
smooth smile, "it seems to be holding a very much overdressed young
lady, presumably from the Folies-Bergere or the Olympia."

The younger man, looking back from his place beside him, turned to
listen, confronted by the sudden excited comments of a middle-aged
woman, obviously Parisian, on the arm of a lean and solemn man with
dyed and waxed mustachios.

"You're quite wrong," cried the young Chicagoan, excitedly. "It's
young Lady Boxspur--the new English beauty. See, they're crowding out
to get a glimpse of her!"

"Who's Lady Boxspur?" asked Durkin, hanging stolidly back. He had seen
quite enough of Riviera beauty on parade.

"She's simply ripping. I got a glimpse of her this afternoon in front
of the _Terrasse_, after she'd first motored over from Nice with old
Szapary!" He lowered his voice, more confidentially. "This Frenchman
here has just been telling his wife that she's the loveliest woman on
the Riviera today. Come on!"

Durkin stood indifferently, under the white glare of the electric lamp,
watching the younger man push through to the centre of the roadway.
The slowly-moving touring-car, hemmed in by the languid midnight
movement of the street, came to a full stop almost before where he
stood. It shuddered and panted there, leviathan-like, and Durkin saw
the sea breeze sway back the canopy drapery.

He followed the direction of the excited young Chicagoan's gaze,
smilingly, now, and with a singularly disengaged mind.

He saw the woman's clear profile outlined against the floating purple
curtain, the quiet and shadowy eyes of violet, the glint of the
chestnut hair that showed