"But it is impossible," he kept repeating. "H'm! 'To let--furnished; for particulars apply to J. F. Brown, at the Casino.' Most certainly, I will--most certainly," and monologuing in the fashion that was peculiar to him, he went down the road again, mindful only of his own perplexity. On reaching the Casino he found that he would have no difficulty in seeing the agent. Mr. Brown, the door-keeper told him, was "right in there," and as he gave this information he pointed to a cramped little office which stood to the left of the entrance. "Is this Mr. Brown?" Tristrem began. "Mr. Brown, I am sorry to trouble you. Would you be good enough to tell me about Mrs. Raritan's cottage. I----" "For next summer? Nine hundred, payable in advance." "I didn't mean about the price. I meant--I was told that Mrs. Raritan had taken it until October----" "So she did. You can sublet for the balance of the season." "Thank you--yes--but Mrs. Raritan hasn't gone away, has she?" "She went weeks ago. There's nothing the matter with the cottage, however. Drainage excellent." "I have no doubt. But can you tell me where Mrs. Raritan went to?" "I haven't the remotest idea. Lenox, perhaps. If you want to look at the cottage I'll give you the key." "I should think----Really, I must apologize for troubling you. Didn't Mrs. Raritan leave her address?" "If she did, it wasn't with me. When do you want the cottage for?" Tristrem had not the courage to question more. He turned despondently from Mr. Brown, and passing on through the vestibule, reached the veranda that fronts the sea. In an angle a group of violinists were strumming an inanity of Strauss with perfect independence of one another. Beyond, on the narrow piazza, and on a division of the lawn that leaned to the road, were a number of small tables close-packed with girls in bright costumes and men in loose flannels and coats of diverting hues. At the open windows of the restaurant other groups were seated, dividing their attention between the food before them and the throng without. And through the crowd a number of Alsatians pushed their way, bearing concoctions to the thirstless. The hubbub was enervating, and in the air was a stench of liquor with which the sea-breeze coped in vain. Tristrem hesitated a second, and would have fled. He was in one of those moods in which the noise and joviality of pleasure-seekers are jarring even to the best-disposed. While he hesitated he saw a figure rising and beckoning from a table on the lawn. And as he stood, uncertain whether or no the signals were intended for him, the figure crossed the intervening space, and he recognized Alphabet Jones. "Come and have a drink," said that engaging individual. "You're as solemn as a comedian. I give you my word, I believe you are the only sober man in the place." "Thank you," Tristrem answered; "I believe I do not care for anything. I only came to ask----By the way, have you been here long?"