er, and Mr. Tarbuck (whom she had evidently
released from sentry-go) stalked across the Place toward the
American Bar.

"He is not in the Casino," she said.

"Have you tried the American Bar?"

"Of course; we've tried all of them."

"I say, I want to help you. Can't I?"

She shook her head.

"If I stayed on in the hotel, could I be of any use?"

"You're not going to stay."

"Why shouldn't I? I've nothing else to do."

"Oh, haven't you? What _you_ have to do is to take that
one-forty-four train to Nice, to-morrow afternoon."

"It's no good," he muttered gloomily. "I'm done for. You've made me
see that plain enough."

"All I made you see was why she turned you down. And now that you do
see----"

"What difference does it make, my seeing it?"

"Why, all the difference. Do you think I'd have taken all this
trouble if it wasn't for that--to have you go right away and make it
up with her?"

"And with you--can I ever make it up?"

"Don't you worry."

She rose. "I suppose appearances were against me; but----"

She held him for a moment with her eyes that measured him; then, as
if she had done all that she wanted with him, she gave him back to
himself, the finer for her handling.

"It wasn't for appearances you really cared."

THE WRACKHAM MEMOIRS

I

The publishers told you he behaved badly, did they? They didn't know
the truth about the "Wrackham Memoirs."

You may well wonder how Grevill Burton got mixed up with them, how
he ever could have known Charles Wrackham.

Well, he did know him, pretty intimately, too, but it was through
Antigone, and because of Antigone, and for Antigone's adorable sake.
We never called her anything but Antigone, though Angelette was the
name that Wrackham, with that peculiar shortsightedness of his, had
given to the splendid creature.

Why Antigone? You'll see why.

No, I don't mean that Wrackham murdered his father and married his
mother; but he wouldn't have stuck at either if it could have helped
him to his literary ambition. And every time he sat down to write a
book he must have been disgusting to the immortal gods. And Antigone
protected him.

She was the only living child he'd had, or, as Burton once savagely
said, was ever likely to have. And I can tell you that if poor
Wrackham's other works had been one half as fine as Antigone it
would have been glory enough for Burton to have edited him. For he
_did_ edit him.

They met first, if you'll bel