e himself with an air of distinction, and
the looker-on saw the gloved hand caress a big moustache of sweeping
silver. The owner of the moustache was bending over the Baroness with
an unmistakable air of gallant attention, and Paul's blood boiled
within him. He had no real sense of the impulse which moved him, and no
calculation as to what might happen; but he pushed the door aside, and,
entering the garden, walked along the gravelled main path which led to
the hotel. He made a feint of holding his head straight, and of looking
neither to left nor right, but he watched Gertrude and her companion
with a keen sidelong glance. His brisk footstep set a pebble rolling
in the pathway, and a second later he heard his own name called. A
low-growing orange-tree, all lustrous with globes of green and gold and
shiny leafage, had intercepted his view of the pair for just the instant
which intervened between the sound and the call.

'Mr. Armstrong,' said Gertrude's voice, 'Mr. Armstrong!' He turned in a
pretence of amazement, and, hat in hand, crossed a small space of turf.

'I had just sent round to you,' said the smiling little lady, 'at your
hotel.' She transferred the parasol to her left hand, and held out the
right in an almost effusive greeting. 'I suppose you have not been back
yet?'

'No,' Paul answered. 'I have been walking and had lost myself, until I
recognised the garden through the open door yonder. Then I made sure of
myself again, and thought I might secure a short-cut home.'

'How fortunate!' said Gertrude, smiling; 'and how curious, too!' she
added. 'At the very moment at which I caught sight of you your name
was in my mind. Are you a believer in the Aura, Colonel Brunton--the
something which envelops personality and diffuses itself in such a
manner that you recognise a friend's presence before you are made aware
of it by sight or hearing? Don't you recognise the reality of those
things? But, oh, I forgot! You gentlemen are, I am afraid, strangers
to each other. This is Colonel Brunton, our great traveller in the
Himalayas and Thibet, and this is Mr. Paul Armstrong, the author of
I dare not say how many charming books and comedies--Mr. Darco's
collaborateur.'

'Whose work,' said Colonel Brunton in a voice typically American, but
profoundly deep, 'I have, bafore my trip to Asia, seen performed with a
splendid eclaw both in London and New York. I am proud to meet you, Mr.
Armstrong.'

He was a rugged man, brown