"So to me was the woman of whom I have just spoken," he answered. "Nevertheless, that did not prevent me marrying ten years later and living in perfect happiness with my wife till her death six years ago. No, the thought of the past is the privilege of all men. I admit that it is doubly hard in your case that, having sacrificed your fortune for sake of her, you should now find yourself being slowly replaced in her heart by some other man. Nevertheless, I repeat I am not surprised." "But you sympathise with me, although I speak so foolishly," he said, half apologetically. "It is no foolish talk," Harrison replied. "There is surely no foolishness in discussing a matter that so closely concerns a man's future," he said. "Of course you have my most sincere sympathy, and if at any time I can offer advice or render assistance, then command me." "You are extremely good," the young man replied. "The mystery surrounding Liane, the tragic death of Nelly Bridson, the discovery of the missing miniature, and the unfortunate girl's acquaintance with this unknown woman whom my father designated as my wife, form an enigma of which, try how I will, I am unable to obtain any elucidation. Through all these months not a single important fact has come to light." "True. It's an extraordinary affair altogether," Harrison acquiesced, replacing the inquiry agent's report in his breast-pocket. "But I still hope we may discover Mariette Lepage, and through her we shall certainly be able to learn something. Until then, we must remain patient." The pained, thoughtful expression that had rested upon his face, while he had been telling George the romance of his life, had been succeeded by that keen business-like air he always wore. He was again the plain, matter-of-fact lawyer, with his clean-shaven aquiline face, his cold steel-blue eyes and thin lips that gave those who did not know him an impression of almost ascetic austerity. George Stratfield made no answer, but when a few minutes later his visitor had gone, after placing his hand sympathetically upon his shoulder and bidding him bear up against misfortune, he cast himself again into his chair and sat immovable, heedless of everything save the one woman who was his idol. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE PROMENADE DES ANGLAIS. Nice, the town of violets and mimosa, of confetti, of gay dominoes and pretty women, is at its best in February, white, clean, and ready for the reception of its most welcome guest, King Carnival. While England is still gloomy with rain and fogs, and wintry winds still moan through the bare branches, the weather is already summer-like, with bright sunshine, soft warm breezes, and a sea of that intense sapphire blue which only the Mediterranean can assume. Little wonder it is that the gay world of every European capital should flock to Nice, so mild is its climate, and so many and unique are its attractions.