Mrs. Greyne looked profound. “Yes. Evil ever seeks the darkness. You will have to do the same.” “You think my investigations must take place at night?” “I should certainly suppose so.” “And where shall I find a cicerone?” “Apply to Rook.” “In what terms? You see, dearest, this is rather a special matter, isn’t it?” “Very special. But on no account hint that you are in Algiers for ‘Catherine’s’ sake. It would get into the papers. It would be cabled to America. The whole reading world would be agog, and the future interest of the book discounted.” Mr. Greyne looked at his wife with reverence. In such moments he realized, almost too poignantly, her great position. “I will be careful,” he said. “What would you recommend me to say?” “Well”—Mrs. Greyne knit her superb forehead—“I should suggest that you present yourself as an ordinary traveler, but with a specially inquiring bent of mind and a slight tendency towards the—the—er—hidden things of life.” “I suppose you wish me to visit the public houses?” “I wish you to see everything that has part or lot in African frailty. Go everywhere, see everything. Bring your notes to me, and I will select such fragments of the broken commandments as suit my purpose, which is, as always, the edifying of the human race. Only this time I mean to purge it as by fire.” “That corner house in Park Lane, next to the Duke of Ebury’s, would suit us very well,” said Mr. Greyne reflectively. “We could sell our lease here at an advance,” his wife rejoined. “You will not waste your journey, Eustace?” “My love,” returned Mr. Greyne with decision, “I will apply to Rook on arrival, and, if I find his man unsatisfactory, if I have any reason to suspect that I am not being shown everything—more especially in the Kasbah region, which, from the guide-books we bought to-day, is, I take it, the most abandoned portion of the city—I will seek another cicerone.” “Do so. And now to bed. You must sleep well to-night in preparation for the journey.” It was their invariable habit before retiring to drink each a tumbler of barley water, which was set out by the butler in Mrs. Greyne’s study. After this nightcap Mrs. Greyne wrote up her anticipatory diary, while Mr. Greyne smoked a mild cigar, and then they went to bed. To-night, as usual, they repaired to the sanctum, and drank their barley water. Having done so, Mr. Greyne drew forth his cigar-case, while Mrs. Greyne went to her writing-table, and prepared to unlock the drawer in which her diary reposed, safe from all prying eyes. The match was struck, the key was inserted in the lock, and turned. As the cigar end glowed the drawer was opened. Mr. Greyne heard a contralto cry. He turned from the arm-chair in which he was just about to seat himself. “My love, is anything the matter?” His wife was bending forward with both hands in the drawer, telling over its contents. “My diary is not here!” “Your diary!” “It is gone.”