"Rich--eh?" remarked the inquirer, and his keen, dark eyes sparkled. "You know nothing more?" "No, m'sieur. But I daresay there are people out at St. Addresse who know much more than I do." "_Bien. Bon jour_," said the stranger, and he passed on, eager to make other and more diligent inquiries. And the stranger, whose name was "Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal.," was the same man who had watched the Earl of Bracondale depart in his car, and who now descended to the beach, following in the footsteps of the Countess. CHAPTER XXIV. THE BLOW. With easy, leisurely gait, the man in the grey hat strode along the sands towards the rocks behind which the Countess and the governess had disappeared. Upon his mobile lips played an evil, triumphant smile, in his keen eyes a sharp, sinister look as he went forward, his hands thrust carelessly into his jacket pocket. His eyes were set searchingly upon the grey rocks before him, when suddenly he saw in the distance Miss Oliver and little Enid walking together. Therefore he knew that Lady Bracondale was alone. "What luck!" he murmured. "I wonder how she'll take it? To think that I should have been lying low in Trouville yonder all that time while she was living here. I've got ten louis, and a ticket for New York, but if you are cute, Ralph Ansell," he said, addressing himself, "you won't want to use that ticket." He chuckled and smiled. "The Countess of Bracondale!" he muttered. "I wonder what lie she told the Earl? Perhaps she's changed--become unscrupulous--since we last met. I wonder?" And then, reaching the rocks, he walked as noiselessly as he could to the spot where he had located that she must be. He had made no error, for as he rounded a great limestone boulder, worn smooth by the action of the fierce winter waves, he saw her seated in the shadow, her sunshade cast aside, reading an English novel in ignorance of any person being present. It was very quiet and peaceful there, the only sound being the low lapping of the blue, tranquil water, clear as crystal in the morning light. She was engrossed in her book, for it was a new one by her favourite author, while he, standing motionless, watched her and saw that, though she had grown slightly older, she was full of girlish charm. She was quietly but beautifully dressed--different indeed to the black gown and print apron of those Paris days. He saw that upon the breast of her white embroidered gown she wore a beautiful brooch in the shape of a coronet, and on her finger a ring with one single but very valuable pearl. He was a connoisseur of such things. At last, after watching her for several minutes, he knit his brows, and, putting forward his hard, determined chin, exclaimed in English: "Well, Jean!" Startled, she looked up. Next second she stared at him open-mouthed. The light died out of her face, leaving it ashen grey, and her book fell from her hand. "Yes, it's me--Ralph Ansell, your husband!"