I am a--not a word!"

He ventured to press her hand, as an elder brother might have pressed
it. For the first time he realised that even to the husband of Mrs.
Eustace Greyne the world might attribute--Goodness gracious! What might
not the militia think, for instance?

He felt himself, for one moment, potentially a dog.

They parted in a whirl of Arabs on the quay. Mr. Greyne would have
stayed to assist Mademoiselle Verbena, but she bade him go.

She whispered that she thought it "better" that they should not seem
to--_enfin!_

"I will write to-morrow," she murmured. "_Au revoir!_"

On the last word she was gone. Mr. Greyne saw nothing but Arabs and
hotel porters. Loneliness seemed to close in on him once more.

That very evening, after a cup of tea, he presented himself at the
office of Rook near the Place du Gouvernement. As he came in he felt a
little nervous. There were no tourists in the office, and a courteous
clerk with a bright and searching eye at once took him in hand.

"What can we do for you, sir?"

"I am a stranger here," began Mr. Greyne.

"Quite so, sir, quite so."

The clerk twiddled his business-like thumbs, and looked inquiring.

"And being so," Mr. Greyne went on, "it is naturally my wish to see as
much of the town as possible; as much as possible, you understand."

"You want a guide? Alphonso!"

Turning, he shouted to an inner room, from which in a moment emerged a
short, stout, swarthy personage with a Jewish nose, a French head, an
Arab eye with a squint in it, and a markedly Maltese expression.

"This is an excellent guide, sir," said the clerk. "He speaks
twenty-five languages."

The stout man, who--as Mr Greyne now perceived--had on a Swiss suit
of clothes, a panama hat, and a pair of German elastic-sided boots,
confessed in pigeon English, interspersed occasionally with a word or
two of something which Mr. Greyne took to be Chinese, that such was
undoubtedly the case.

"What do you wish to see? The mosque, the bazaars, St. Eugene, La
Trappe, Mustapha, the baths of the Etat-Major, the Jardin d'Essai,
the Villa-Anti-Juif, the----"

"One moment!" said Mr. Greyne.

He turned to the clerk.

"May I take a chair?"

"Be seated, sir, pray be seated, and confer with Alphonso."

So saying, he gave himself to an enormous ledger, while Mr. Greyne took
a chair opposite to Alphonso, who stood in a Moorish attitude looking
apparently in the direction of Marseilles.

"I have come h