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moisture in her eyes.
The poor angel, she repeated.
Later, I gave Stenson a succinct account of what had occurred. I
owed it to my reputation. Then I went upstairs and dressed for
dinner. I consider I owe that to Stenson. It was eight o'clock
before I sat down, but Antoinette's ducklings were delicious and
brought consolation for the upheaval of the day. I was unfolding
the latest edition of _The Westminster Gazette_ with which I
always soothe the digestive halfhour after dinner, when
Antoinette entered to report progress.
She was sound asleep, the poor little one. Oh, but she was
tired. She had eaten some _consomme_, a bit of fish and an
omelette. But she was beautiful, gentle as a lamb; and she had a
skin _on dirait du satin_. Had not Monsieur noticed it?
I replied, with some overemphasis, that I had not.
Monsieur rather regards the inside of his books, said
Antoinette.
They are generally more worth regarding, said I.
Antoinette said nothing; but there was a feminine quiver at the
corners of her fat lips.
She was comfortably disposed of for the night. I drew a breath
of relief. Tomorrow Great Scotland Yard should set out on the
track of the absconding Harry. Carlotta's happy recollection of
his surname facilitated the search. I lit a cigarette and opened
_The Westminster Gazette_.
A few moments later I was staring at the paper in blank horror
and dismay.
Harry was found. There was no mistake. Harry Robinson, junior
partner of the firm of Robinson & Co., of Mincing Lane. Vain,
indeed, would it be to seek the help of Great Scotland Yard.
Harry had blown out his brains in the South Western Hotel at
Southampton.
I have read the newspaper paragraph over and over again tonight.
There is no possible room for doubt that it is the same Harry.
The ways of man are past interpretation. Here is an individual
who lures a girl from an oriental harem, attires her in
disgusting garments, smuggles her on board a steamer, where he
claps her, so to speak, under hatches, and has little if anything
to do with her, sets her penniless and ticketless in a London
train, and then goes off and blows his brains out. Where is the
sense of it?
I have not a spark of sympathy for Harrya callow, egotistical
dealer in currants. He ought to have blown out his brains a year
ago. He has behaved in a most unconscionable manner. How does he
expect me to break the news to Carlotta? His selfishness is
appalling. There he lies, comfortably dead in the South Western
Hotel, while Carlotta has literally not a rag to her back, her

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