During their honeymoon the newly-married pair spent a night at Mont St. Michel. In the course of that night an unpleasant incident took place. There was a bright moon, and the occupants of the bedrooms gathered on the balconies of the Maison Blanche to enjoy its radiance. The room next to theirs was tenanted by two sisters, Brooklyn girls. The costumes of these young ladies, although in that somewhat remote corner of the world, would have made an impression on the Boulevards, and still more emphatically in the Park. The married one--a Mrs. Homer Joy--wore some striking jewellery, in particular a diamond brooch, redolent of Tiffany, which would have attracted notice on a Shah night at the opera. Mr. Burgoyne had noticed this brooch earlier in the day, and had told himself that we must have returned to the days of King Alfred--with several points in our favour--if a woman could journey round the world with that advertisement in diamond work flashing in the sun. Someone proposed a midnight stroll about the rock. They strolled. In the morning there was a terrible to-do. The advertisement in diamond work had disappeared!--stolen!--giving satisfactory proof that in those parts, at any rate, the days of King Alfred were now no more. Mrs. Joy stated that, previous to starting for the midnight ramble about the Mount, she had placed it on her dressing-table, apparently despising the precaution of placing it even in an ordinary box. She was not even sure that she had closed her bedroom door, so it had, of course, struck the eye of the first person who strolled that way, and, in all probability, that person had, in the American sense, "struck it." Mont St. Michel was still in a little tumult of excitement when Mr. and Mrs. Burgoyne journeyed on their way. Oddly enough, this discordant note, once struck, was struck again--kept on striking, in fact. At almost every place where the honeymooners stopped for an appreciable length of time there something was lost. It seemed fatality. At Morlaix, a set of quaint, old, hammered silver-spoons, which had accompanied their coffee, vanished--not, according to the indignant innkeeper, into thin air, but into somebody's pockets. It was most annoying. At Brest, Quimper Vannes, Nantes, and afterwards through Touraine and up the Loire, it was the same tale, the loss of something of appreciable value--somebody else's property, not their's--accompanied their visitation. The coincidence was singular. However they did seem to have shaken off the long arm of coincidence at last. There had been no sort of unpleasantness at either of the last two or three places at which they had stopped, and when they reached Paris at last, they were so contented with all the world, that each seemed to have forgotten everything in the existence of the other.