``But this is hardly the place to enter on a story of that kind,'' he observed, looking round at the room with a faint smile as attractive as the rest of his rustic but wellbred personality.

I expressed my regret. I should have liked to hear all about it. To this he said that it was not a secret and that perhaps next time we met. . . .

``But where can we meet?'' I cried. `Ì don't come often to this house, you know.''

``Where? Why on the Cannebiere to be sure. Everybody meets everybody else at least once a day on the pavement opposite the _Bourse._''

This was absolutely true. But though I looked for him on each succeeding day he was nowhere to be seen at the usual times. The companions of my idle hours (and all my hours were idle just then) noticed my preoccupation and chaffed me about it in a rather obvious way. They wanted to know whether she, whom I

expected to see, was dark or fair; whether that fascination which kept me on tenterhooks of expectation was one of my aristocrats or one of my marine beauties: for they knew I had a footing in both theseshall we say circles? As to themselves they were the bohemian circle, not very widehalf a dozen of us led by a sculptor whom we called Prax for short. My own nickname was ``Young Ulysses.'' I liked it.

But chaff or no chaff they would have been surprised to see me leave them for the burly and sympathetic

Mills. I was ready to drop any easy company of equals to approach that interesting man with every mental deference. It was not precisely because of that shipwreck. He attracted and interested me the more because he was not to be seen. The fear that he might have departed suddenly for England (or for Spain)caused me a sort of ridiculous depression as though I had missed a unique opportunity. And it was a joyful reaction which emboldened me to signal to him with a raised arm across that cafe.

I was abashed immediately afterwards, when I saw him advance towards my table with his friend. The latter was eminently elegant. He was exactly like one of those figures one can see of a fine May evening in the neighbourhood of the Operahouse in Paris. Very Parisian indeed.

And yet he struck me as not so perfectly

French as he ought to have been, as if one's nationality were an accomplishment with varying degrees of excellence. As to Mills, he was perfectly insular. There could be no doubt about him. They were both smiling faintly at me. The burly Mills attended to the introduction:

``Captain Blunt.''

The Arrow of Gold

PART ONE

Page 7

5

We shook hands. The name didn't tell me much.