There was a moment of supreme silence. Then a loud, an even piercing “_Oh, là, là!_” broke upon the air, succeeded instantaneously by a burst of laughter that seemed to thrill with all the wild blessedness of boyhood. It came, of course, from the little chasseur; it came, and stayed. Nothing could stop it, and eventually the happy child had to be carried forth upon the sea-front to enjoy his innocent mirth at leisure and in solitude beneath the African stars. Mrs. Greyne did not notice his disappearance. She was intent upon important matters. “At what time does Mr. Greyne usually set forth?” she asked of the proprietor, whose face now bore a strangely twisted appearance, as if afflicted by a toothache. “Immediately after dinner, madame, if not before. Of late it has generally been before.” “And he stays out late?” “Very late, madame.” The twisted appearance began to seem infectious. It was visible upon the faces of most of those surrounding Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes. Indeed, even the latter showed some signs of it, although the large shadow cast over her features by the hind side of her Mother Hubbard bonnet to some extent disguised them from the public view. “Till what hour?” pursued Mrs. Greyne in a voice of almost yearning tenderness and pity. “Well, madame”—the proprietor displayed some slight confusion—“I really can hardly say. The _maître d’hôtel_ can perhaps inform you.” Mrs. Greyne turned her ox-like eyes upon the enlarged edition of Napoleon the First. “Monsieur Greyne seldom returns before seven or eight o’clock in the morning, madame. He then retires to bed, and comes down to breakfast at about four o’clock in the afternoon.” Mrs. Greyne was touched to the very quick. Her husband was sacrificing his rest, his health—nay, perhaps even his very life—in her service. It was well she had come, well that a period was to be put to these terrible researches. They should be stopped at once, even this very night. Better a thousand literary failures than that her husband’s existence should be placed in jeopardy. She rose suddenly from her chair, tottered, gasped, recovered herself, and spoke. “Prepare dinner for me at once,” she said, “and order a carriage and a competent guide to be before the door in half-an-hour.” “Madame is going out? But madame is ill, tired!” “It matters not.” “Where does madame wish to go?” “I am going to the Kasbah to find my husband.” “I will escort madame.” The proprietor, the _maître d’hôtel_, the waiters, the porters, the chasseurs, Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes, all turned about to face the determined speaker. And there before them, his dark eyes gleaming, his long moustaches bristling fiercely—there stood Abdallah Jack. VII