'_Mache_! The fellow is too honest; you do well to watch him.' There was
a world of disgust in his tone.

Constance glanced after the retreating figure and laughed.

'Tony!' she called.

He kept on; she raised her voice.

'Mr. Yamhankeesh.'

He paused.

'You call, signorina?'

'Be sure and be here by half-past six on Friday morning; we must start
early.'

'Sank you, signorina. Good night.'

'Good night, Tony.'

CHAPTER VIII

The Hotel du Lac may be approached in two ways. The ordinary, obvious
way, which incoming tourists of necessity choose, is by the high road and
the gate. But the romantic way is by water. One sees only the garden
then, and the garden is the distinguished feature of the place; it was
planned long before the hotel was built to adorn a marquis's pleasure
house. There are grottos, arbours, fountains, a winding stream, and,
stretching the length of the water front, a deep cool grove of interlaced
plane trees. At the end of the grove, half a dozen broad stone steps dip
down to a tiny harbour which is carpeted on the surface with lily pads.
The steps are worn by the lapping waves of fifty years, and are grown
over with slippery, slimy water weeds.

The world was just stirring from its afternoon siesta, when the
_Farfalla_ dropped her yellow sails and floated into the shady little
harbour. Giuseppe prodded and pushed along the fern-grown banks until the
keel jolted against the water-steps. He sprang ashore and steadied the
boat while Constance alighted. She slipped on the mossy step--almost went
under--and righted herself with a laugh that rang gaily through the
grove.

She came up the steps still smiling, shook out her fluffy pink skirts,
straightened her rose-trimmed hat, and glanced reconnoitringly about the
grove. One might reasonably expect, attacking the hotel as it were from
the flank, to capture unawares any stray guest. But aside from a
chaffinch or so and a brown and white spotted calf tied to a tree, the
grove was empty--blatantly empty. There was a shade of disappointment in
Constance's glance. One naturally does not like to waste one's best
embroidered gown on a spotted calf.

Then her eye suddenly brightened as it lighted on a vivid splash of
yellow under a tree. She crossed over and picked it up--a paper-covered
French novel; the title was _Bijou_, the author was Gyp. She turned to
the first page. Any reasonably careful person might be expected to write
his nam