Barfleur left for the north at four-thirty, assuring me that we would meet in Paris in April and ride at Fontainebleau, and that we would take a walking tour in England. After he was gone, Scorp and I walked to and fro and then it was that Marcelle appeared. I had to smile as I walked with Scorp, thinking how wrathful he would have been if he had known that every so often we were passing Marcelle, who gazed demurely the other way. The platforms, as usual, were alive with passengers with huge piles of baggage. My train was a half hour late and it was getting dark. Some other train which was not bound for Rome entered, and Marcelle signaled to know whether she was to get into that. I shook my head and hunted up the Cook’s tourist agent, always to be found on these foreign platforms, and explained to him that he was to go to the young lady in the blue suit and white walking-shoes and tell her that the train was a half hour late and ask her if she cared to wait. With quite an American _sang-froid_ he took in the situation at once, and wanted to know how far she was going. I told him Ventimiglia and he advised that she get off at Garaban in order to catch the first train back. He departed, and presently returned, cutting me out from the company of Sir Scorp by a very wise look of the eye, and informed me that the lady would wait and would go. I promptly gave him a franc for his trouble. My pocket was bulging with Italian silver lire and paper five- and ten-lire pieces which I had secured the day before. Finally my train rolled in and I took one last look at the sea in the fading light and entered. Sir Scorp gave me parting instructions as to simple restaurants that I would find at different places in Italy--not the showy and expensive cafés, beloved of Barfleur. He wanted me to save money on food and have my portrait painted by Mancini, which I could have done, he assured me, with a letter from him. He looked wisely around the platform to see that there was no suspicious lady anywhere in the foreground and said he suspected one might be going with me. “Oh, Scorp,” I said, “how could you? Besides, I am very poor now.” “The ruling passion--strong in poverty,” he commented, and waved me a farewell. I walked forward through the train looking for my belongings and encountered Marcelle. She was eager to explain by signs that the Cook’s man had told her to get off at Garaban. “_M’sieur Thomas Cook, il m’a dit--il faut que je descends à Garaban--pas Ventimiglia--Garaban._” She understood well enough that if she wanted to get back to Monte Carlo early in the evening she would have to make this train, as the next was not before ten o’clock.