Upon this naturally follows the report of Constable Stewer of the Tormouth borough police. To this effect: Was on duty 3.30 p.m. on the quay; motor-launch from Italian yacht came in and lay by number one steps; two young ladies came in a hurry and entered launch; gentleman who had been smoking cigar in vicinity thrust paper and half-crown into my hands, saying “Constable, wire that immediate”; gentleman then took flying leap into launch, which was already shoved off, and engine started; launch steered for Italian yacht; returned to station to make report. The paper when examined by inspector on duty was found to bear these words: “Lomas, Scotland Yard. Two girls on _Giulia_. Me too.--F.” A telegram was sent. About tea-time Scotland Yard telephoned to know whether the yacht _Giulia_ was still at Tormouth. A serjeant hurrying to the harbour found P. C. Stewer back at his post watching a smudge of smoke on the horizon. About that time Miss Lomas called at the police station to ask if anything had been heard or seen of two of her girls. So we leave the inspector almost exploding with a sense of the importance of his office. “Mille pardons, mademoiselle,” said Reggie, as he arrived in the launch and grabbed at his hat and, involuntarily, sat down upon Miss Crowland. With a firm and friendly hand she assisted him to recover his balance. She was in all respects made to sustain shocks. Her grey eyes smiled at him. A man--an oldish, solemn man who was horrified--confronted Reggie. “You cannot come here, monsieur,” he cried in French. “I dare to assure you of the contrary,” says Reggie in the same language. “This is a private launch.” “Perfectly. Of the Prince of Ragusa. It is why I have arrived. I have news for the Prince of Ragusa--news which will surprise him marvellously.” The solemn man was embarrassed. “Nevertheless I protest, sir.” “I make a note of your protest,” said Reggie, and bowed. The solemn man bowed--and seemed satisfied. Reggie sat down beside the little Alice Warenne, who had been watching all this very demurely, a contrast to Miss Crowland, who was frankly amused. “Permit a lover of art to address you, mademoiselle,” said he. “I desire infinitely to thank you for the great pleasure which you have given me.” “How, sir? I do not understand.” She looked more a baby than ever. “Your little sleeves of satinette,” Reggie murmured. “Your adorable little sleeves of satinette.” And then she laughed, and Reggie knew that he had made no mistake. She was the soubrette of the Variétés. The laugh of Mlle Ducher was unforgettable. “I am a great artist, sir, am I not?” Hilda Crowland smiled at her. “Monsieur is a friend of yours, Alice?” she said in English. “All in good time. Only an admirer at present, darling.” She gave Reggie a glance which was not the least childish. “I dare to hope,” Reggie said, and again she laughed.