The future Colonel bustled off after making a note or two. He did not report for a couple of days, and then he called up Pointer to say that Captain and Mrs. Anstruther were also stopping at the Negresco, where, oddly enough, they had gone from the Hermitage, the afternoon after the lady was seen talking to Carter. In the hotel a slight, casual-looking acquaintance seemed to have been struck up between them and Carter, ostensibly connected with his civility to Mrs. Anstruther at Monte Carlo. The closest watching had as yet shown nothing suspicious beyond the facts themselves. Within the hour a tall, dark-haired, black-moustached man sent in his name to Mrs. Anstruther as one of the _Daily Post's_ reporters. It was Captain Anstruther who came down into the lounge instead. “My wife does not care to be interviewed,” he said shortly, handing back his card to “Mr. Wiley.” “We are at a loss to understand why she should be singled out for the favour.” “It's about her contract at the Columbine,” the journalist said chattily, “but you might do as well. The _D.P._ wants to know what has become of Miss Leslie and——” “Come upstairs.” Captain Anstruther spoke with more haste than hospitality. “I don't know how you got on to the fact that my wife was Miss Leslie. . . .” “Recognised her.” “Well, you tell your paper that she's retired into private life. Look here, it's worth our while to make it worth _your_ while to mention no names. See?” “I do. But our paper thinks she married a Mr. Black, of Richmond,—or no, another place on the river——” Captain Anstruther looked still more vexed. “Of all the damned spying!—I'm a nephew of those Blacks as a matter of fact. Look here, keep all names out of the papers”—he squeezed a note into the journalist's hand, who returned it promptly. “I should get the sack if I tried that game. I can keep all names out—possibly—without palm-oil. It's her broken contract anyway that our paper's keen on. Why wasn't she sued? And why no announcement of the wedding?” Captain Anstruther bit his lip. “Look here, Wiley, you seem a decent chap. I'll, well—I'll take you into our confidence. I'm divorced from my first wife, and Miss Leslie's people are Romans and fearfully pie. They'd have a fit. So, as they're buried alive in Cumberland, they'll never know—at least till the honeymoon is over—unless some paper spreads it broadcast. As to the contract—I squared the management under a pledge of the strictest secrecy. Now then, have a drink, and see how little you can tell about us, there's a good chap. You might let me see your article if you would?” The journalist sipped his tumbler of lemonade. “Look here,” he said impulsively, “I'll scratch the whole item. I've always admired Miss Leslie immensely. I wouldn't for the world do anything to annoy her. But I wonder if she wouldn't do us instead an article on ‘How it feels to be on the Stage,’ or some ‘Reminiscences.’ She could sign her old name to them all right.”