I questioned him regarding his inquiries concerning the actual identity
of Marie Bracq, but he only raised his eyebrows and replied:

"My dear Mr. Royle, I know nothing more than you do. They no doubt
possess some information in Brussels, but they are careful to keep it
there."

And so I had accompanied Phrida and her mother, hoping that the change of
air and scenery might cause her to forget the shadow of guilt which now
seemed to rest upon her and to crush all life and hope from her young
heart.

Tiring of Dinard, Mrs. Shand hired a big, grey touring-car, and together
we went first through Brittany, then to Vannes, Nantes, and up to Tours,
afterwards visiting the famous chateaux of Touraine, Amboise Loches, and
the rest, the weather being warm and delightful, and the journey one of
the pleasantest and most picturesque in Europe.

When July came, Phrida appeared greatly improved in both health and
spirits. Yet was it only pretence? Did she in the lonely watches of the
night still suffer that mental torture which I knew, alas! she had
suffered, for her own deep-set eyes, and pale, sunken cheeks had revealed
to me the truth. Each time I sat down and wrote that confidential note to
Edwards, I hated myself--that I was set to spy upon the woman I loved
with all my heart and soul.

Would the truth never be told? Would the mystery of that tragic January
night in South Kensington never be elucidated?

One evening in the busy but pleasant town of Tours, Mrs. Shand having
complained of headache after a long, all-day excursion in the car, Phrida
and I sauntered out after dinner, and after a brief walk sat down outside
one of those big cafes where the tables are placed out beneath the leafy
chestnut trees of the boulevard.

The night was hot and stifling, and as we sat there chatting over our
coffee amid a crowd of people enjoying the air after the heat of the day,
a dark-faced, narrow-eyed Oriental in a fez, with a number of Oriental
rugs and cheap shawls, came and stood before us, in the manner of those
itinerant vendors who haunt Continental cafes.

He said nothing, but, standing like a bronze statue, he looked hard at me
and pointed solemnly at a quantity of lace which he held in his left
hand.

"No, I want nothing," I replied in French, shaking my head.

"Ve-ry cheep, sare!" he exclaimed in broken English at last. "You no buy
for laidee?" and he showed his white teeth with a pleasant grin.

I again replied in