It seemed unnatural that a healthy young man should maintain so bitter a feud with a girl whose beauty was almost of a transcendant quality and all because she had rejected him. Jack Glover was a public school boy, a man with a keen sense of honour. She could not imagine him being guilty of a mean action. And such men did not pursue vendettas without good reason. If they were rejected by a woman, they accepted their _congé_ with a good grace, and it was almost unthinkable that Jack should have no other reason for his hatred. Yet she could not bring herself even to consider the possibility that the reason was the one he had advanced. She came again to the dead end of conjecture. She could believe in Jack's judgment up to a point--beyond that she could not go. She had her bath, dressed, and was in the garden when the eastern horizon was golden with the light of the rising sun. Nobody was about, the most energetic of the servants had not yet risen, and she strolled through the avenue to the main road. As she stood there looking up and down a man came out from the trees that fringed the road and began walking rapidly in the direction of Monte Carlo. "Mr. Jaggs!" she called. He took no notice, but seemed to increase his limping pace, and after a moment's hesitation, she went flying down the road after him. He turned at the sound of her footsteps and in his furtive way drew into the shadow of a bush. He looked more than usually grimy; on his hands were an odd pair of gloves and a soft slouch hat that had seen better days, covered his head. "Good-morning, miss," he wheezed. "Why were you running away, Mr. Jaggs?" she asked, a little out of breath. "Not runnin' away, miss," he said, glancing at her sharply from under his heavy white eyebrows. "Just havin' a look round!" "Do you spend all your nights looking round?" she smiled at him. "Yes, miss." At that moment a cyclist gendarme came into view. He slowed down as he approached the two and dismounted. "Good morning, madame," he said politely, and then looking at the man, "is this man in your employ? I have seen him coming out of your house every morning?" "Oh, yes," said Lydia hastily, "he's my----" She was at a loss to describe him, but old Jaggs saved her the trouble. "I'm madame's courier," he said, and to Lydia's amazement he spoke in perfect French, "I am also the watchman of the house." "Yes, yes," said Lydia, after she had recovered from her surprise. "M'sieur is the watchman, also." "_Bien_, madame," said the gendarme. "Forgive my asking, but we have so many strangers here." They watched the gendarme out of sight. Then old Jaggs chuckled. "Pretty good French, miss, wasn't it?" he said, and without another word, turned and limped in the trail of the police. She looked after him in bewilderment. So he spent every night in the grounds, or somewhere about the house? The knowledge gave her a queer sense of comfort and safety.