Having been assisted by the staff into a Moorish hall, Mrs. Greyne inquired in a reticent voice for her husband, and was politely informed that there was no person of the name of Greyne in the hotel. For a moment she seemed threatened with dissolution, but with a supreme effort calling upon her mighty brain she surmised that her husband was possibly passing under a pseudonym in order to throw America off the scent. She, therefore, demanded to have the guests then present in the hotel at once paraded before her. As there was some difficulty about this—the guests being then at dinner—she whispered for the visitors’ book, thinking that, perchance, Mr. Greyne had inscribed his name there, and that the staff, being foreign, did not recognise it as murmured by herself. The book was brought, upon its cover in golden letters the words: “Hôtel Loubet et Majestic.” Then explanations of a somewhat disagreeable nature occurred, and Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes, after a heavy payment had been exacted for their conveyance to a place they had desired not to go to, were carried forth, and consigned to another vehicle, which at length brought them, on the stroke of nine, to the Grand Hotel. Having been placed reverently in the brilliantly-lighted hall, they were surrounded by the proprietor, the _mâitre d’hôtel_ and his assistants, the porters, and the chasseurs, with all of whom Mr. Greyne was now familiar. Brandy and water having been supplied, together with smelling-salts and burnt feathers, Mrs. Greyne roused herself from an acute attack of lethargy, and asked for Mr. Greyne. A joyous smile ran round the circle. “Monsieur Greyne,” said the proprietor, “who is living here for the winter?” “Mr. Eustace Greyne,” murmured the great novelist, grasping her bonnet with both hands. The _mâitre d’hôtel_ drew nearer. “Madame wishes to see Monsieur Greyne?” he asked. “I do—at once.” A blessed consciousness of Mother Earth was gradually beginning to steal over her. She even strove feebly to sit up on her chair, a German-Swiss porter of enormous size assisting her. “But Monsieur Greyne is out.” “Out?” “Yes, madame. Monsieur Greyne is always out at night.” The eyes of the little chasseur who knew no better began to twinkle. Mrs. Forbes gave a slight cough. Tears filled the novelist’s eyes. “God bless my Eustace!” she murmured, deeply touched by this evidence of his devotion to her interests. “Madame says⸺” asked the proprietor. “Where does Mr. Greyne go?” inquired the novelist. “To the Kasbah, madame.” “I knew it!” cried Mrs. Greyne, with returning animation. “I knew it would be so!” “Madame is acquainted with Monsieur Greyne?” said the _mâitre d’hôtel_, while the little crowd gathered more closely about the wave-worn group. “I am Mrs. Eustace Greyne,” returned the great novelist recklessly. “I am the wife of Mr. Eustace Greyne.”