“You must leave here, Jimmy,” she had said quite calmly.  “Go down to Rome, to Palermo, to Ragusa, or somewhere where you can put in a month or so in comfort.  The Villa Igiea at Palermo would suit you quite well—­lots of smart people, and very decent cooking.”

“Well,” he laughed, “as far as hotels go, nothing could be worse than this place.  I’d never put my nose into this hole if it were not for the fact that you come here.  There isn’t a hotel worth the name.  When one goes to Monte, or Cannes, or even decaying Nice, one can get decent cooking.  But here—­ugh!” and he shrugged his shoulders.  “Price higher than the ‘Ritz’ in Paris, food fourth-rate, rooms cheaply decorated, and a dullness unequalled.”

“My dear Jimmy,” laughed her ladyship, “you’re such a cosmopolitan that you’re incorrigible.  I know you don’t like this place.  You’ve been here six weeks, so go.”

“You’ve had a letter from the old man, eh?”

“Yes, I have,” she replied, and he saw that her countenance changed; but she would say nothing more.  She had decided that he must leave San Remo, and would hear no argument to the contrary.

The southern sun sank slowly into the sea, now grey but waveless.  On the horizon lay the long smoke-trail of a passing steamer eastward bound.  He had rounded the steep, rocky headland, and in the hollow before him nestled the little village of Ospedaletti, with its closed casino, its rows of small villas, and its palm-lined passeggiata.

A hundred yards farther on he saw the figure of a rather shabby, middle-aged man, in a faded grey overcoat and grey soft felt-hat of the mode usual on the Riviera, but discoloured by long wear, leaning upon the low sea-wall and smoking a cigarette.  No other person was in the vicinity, and it was quickly evident from the manner in which the wayfarer recognised him and came forward to meet him with outstretched hand that they had met by appointment.  Short of stature as he was, with fair hair, colourless eyes, and a fair moustache, his slouching appearance was that of one who had seen better days, even though there still remained about him a vestige of dandyism.  The close observer would, however, detect that his clothes, shabby though they were, were of foreign cut, and that his greeting was of that demonstrative character that betrayed his foreign birth.

“Well, my dear Krail,” exclaimed Flockart, after they had shaken hands and stood together leaning upon the sea-wall, “you got my wire in Huntingdon?  I was uncertain whether you were at the ‘George’ or at the ‘Fountain,’ so I sent a message to both.”

“I was at the ‘George,’ and left an hour after receipt of your wire.”

“Well, tell me what has happened.  How are things up at Glencardine?”

“Goslin is with the old fellow.  He has taken the girl’s place as his confidential secretary,” was the shabby man’s reply, speaking with a foreign accent.  “Walter Murie was at home for Christmas, but went to Cairo.”