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that day, and in that cockle-shell of a boat I could not possibly have gone very far out of its course.

As a matter of fact it was four days before I reached Tangier. The sight I must have presented when I got there! I walked nearly all the way. I had never had a wash, or been able to brush or comb my hair—considering when I was lowered into that small boat I was in full evening-dress. I had on a costume of sky-blue satin covered with chiffon, the corsage cut low, no sleeves, a pair of blue silk stockings to match, and the flimsiest of shoes. When you have got those details clearly in your mind, and remember that I had spent a night at sea, rowing in a small boat, and that afterwards I walked for four days on the roads of Morocco, without once coming within sight of soap or water, brush or comb, I don't think I need say any more of what I looked like when I reached Tangier.

I created a sensation when I did get there; for that matter, I created a sensation all along the road. I was the centre of a highly-amused mob of the inhabitants of the place, when, of all people in the world, who should I encounter but the proprietor of Ebenezer's Grey-Blue Pills, his wife, his son, his two daughters, together with other passengers from the yacht which I had so unintentionally quitted. And they fell on me all at once, not with sympathy, but with accusations of robbery and theft.

We all adjourned to the house of the British Consul, and half the population of the town seemed to be waiting in the street without. There I was informed that jewels, and other valuables, belonging to John T. Stebbings, had been taken out of his cabin on the night I had gone, and everyone took it for granted that they had gone with me. So there I was, charged with leaving that yacht of set purpose and intention, with no end of valuables belonging to other people.

Looking back, I find that I have omitted something; it comes back to my mind at this moment just as it did then. It is not very much—just a trifle; but one of those trifles which turn the scale.

As, on that eventful night, Miss Marianne Tracy looked round and beheld me, she was in the very act of saying something to her freckled friend. I only saw her lips form part of the sentence; how it began I do not know, and it never ended. The words I saw her lips form were only these:—

". . . the Villa Hortense, in the Street of the Fountain——"

In the excitement of the thrilling moment which immediately ensued I think I scarcely realized that those words had reached my brain—anyhow, I should not have known to what they referred. But in that room in the Consul's house, confronted by my accusers, they came back to me. I even had some inkling of what they might mean.

I told my tale. They listened with an amazement which grew; then, when I had come nearly to an end, and I felt that I had made some sort of impression, I asked the Consul a question:—

"Is there in this town a Street of the Fountain?"

He said there was; he ventured on a statement, eyeing me sharply.

"You have been here before—this is not your first visit to Tangier?"

I told him not only that it was, but that I hoped it would be my last. I explained the circumstances in which I had seen the words uttered. How he stared, and how they all stared, as if I were some wonderful creature! It is a continual source of amusement to me how many people think I am doing something wonderful when I am merely putting into practice the principles by the teaching of which I make my living.

"I understand," I added, "that Miss Tracy left the yacht the night before last, to spend a day or two ashore. I think it possible that you will find she prefers to remain ashore when the yacht goes." I put another question to the Consul: "Do you happen to know, sir, if in the Street of the Fountain there is a house called the Villa Hortense?"

"By repute I know it very well. It is a house which, at various times, has had some curious occupants—persons of whom somewhat queer tales have been told. I believe that at the present moment it is without a tenant."

"I venture, in spite of your belief, sir, to express my belief that if Mr. John T. Stebbings would like to learn something about the jewels belonging to Mrs. Stebbings and the Misses Stebbings, he cannot do better than make inquiries at the Villa Hortense, in the Street of the Fountain."

They all trooped off to that poetically-named street; I tried to get it into their heads that that was not the most desirable way of making what ought to have been a discreet approach. Each was willing that someone else should stay behind, but was bent on going him or her self. So they all of them went together. Someone, I do not know who, had lent me an aboriginal sort of wrap which I believe was called a burnous;