the globe--an English country gentleman. There was no possibility of
any mistake about him. Saxon was written in his face, in the cut of his
clothes; even his attitude betrayed it. He was tall and handsome, and
young enough not to have outlived enthusiasm, for he was looking out
upon the gay scene with keen interest. His features were well cut, his
eyes were blue, and his bronze face was smooth, save for a slight,
well-formed moustache. He wore a brown tweed coat and waistcoat, flannel
trousers, a straw hat tilted over his eyes, and he was smoking a briar
pipe, with his hands in his pockets, and his feet resting upon the stone
work.

His companion was of a different type. He was of medium height only, and
thin; his complexion was sallow, and his eyes and hair were black. His
features, though not altogether pleasing, were regular, and almost
classical in outline. His clothes displayed him to the worst possible
advantage. He wore black trousers and a dark frock coat, tightly
fitting, which accentuated the narrowness of his shoulders. The only
relief to the sombreness of his attire consisted in a white flower
carefully fastened in his button-hole. He, too, had been smoking, but
his cigarette had gone out, and he was watching the stream of people
pass and repass, with a fixed, searching gaze. Though young, his face
was worn and troubled. He had none of the _sang froid_ or the
pleasure-seeking carelessness of the Englishman who sat by his side. His
whole appearance was that of a man with a steadfast definite purpose in
life--of a man who had tasted early the sweets and bitters of existence,
joy and sorrow, passion and grief.

They were only acquaintances, these two men; chance had brought them
together for some evil purpose of her own. When the Englishman, who,
unlike most of his compatriots, was a young man of a sociable turn of
mind, and detested solitude, had come across him a few minutes ago in
the long, low dining-room of the hotel, and had proposed their sharing a
table and their coffee outside, the other would have refused if he could
have done so with courtesy. As that had been impossible, he had yielded,
however, and they had become for a while companions, albeit silent ones.

The Englishman was in far too good a humor with himself, the place, and
his surroundings, to hold his peace for long. He exchanged his pipe for
a Havana, and commenced to talk.

"I say, this is an awfully jolly place! No idea it was anythin