interested in natives," said Jean carelessly. "What is
he, a negro?"

"Oh, no, he's fairer than--" Lydia was about to say "your father," but
thought it discreet to find another comparison. "He's fairer than most
of the people in the south of France," she said, "but then all very
highly-bred Moors are, aren't they?"

Jean shook her head.

"Ethnology means nothing to me," she said humorously. "I've got my idea
of Moors from Shakespeare, and I thought they were mostly black. What is
he then? I haven't read the papers."

"He is the Pretender to the Moorish throne," said Lydia, "and there has
been a lot of trouble in the French Senate about him. France supports
his claims, and the Spaniards have offered a reward for his body, dead
or alive, and that has brought about a strained relationship between
Spain and France."

Jean regarded her with an amused smile.

"Fancy taking an interest in international politics. I suppose that is
due to your working on a newspaper, Lydia."

Jean discovered that she was to take a greater interest in Muley Hafiz
than she could have thought was possible. She had to go into Monte Carlo
to do some shopping. Mentone was nearer, but she preferred the drive
into the principality.

The Rooms had no great call for her, and whilst Mordon went to a garage
to have a faulty cylinder examined, she strolled on to the terrace of
the Casino, down the broad steps towards the sea. The bathing huts were
closed at this season, but the little road down to the beach is secluded
and had been a favourite walk of hers in earlier visits.

Near the huts she passed a group of dark-looking men in long white
jellabs, and wondered which of these was the famous Muley. One she
noticed with a particularly negro type of face, wore on his flowing robe
the scarlet ribbon of the Legion of Honour. Somehow or other he did not
seem interesting enough to be Muley, she thought as she went on to a
strip of beach.

A man was standing on the sea shore, a tall, commanding man, gazing out
it seemed across the sunlit ocean as though he were in search of
something. He could not have heard her footfall because she was walking
on the sand, and yet he must have realised her presence, for he turned,
and she almost stopped at the sight of his face. He might have been a
European; his complexion was fair, though his eyebrows and eyes were jet
black, as also was the tiny beard and moustache he wore. Beneath the
conventional jellab he wore