“God bless my Eustace!” she murmured, deeply touched by this evidence of his devotion to her interests.
“Madame says——” asked the proprietor.
“Where does Mr. Greyne go?” inquired the novelist.
“To the Kasbah, madame.”
“I knew it!” cried Mrs. Greyne, with returning animation. “I knew it would be so!”
“Madame is acquainted with Monsieur Greyne?” said the maître d’hôtel, while the little crowd gathered more closely about the wave-worn group.
“I am Mrs. Eustace Greyne,” returned the great novelist recklessly. “I am the wife of Mr. Eustace Greyne.”
There was a moment of supreme silence. Then a loud, an even piercing “Oh, là, là, broke upon the air, succeeded instantaneously by a burst of laughter that seemed to thrill with all the wild blessedness of boyhood. It came, of course, from the little chasseur; it came, and stayed. Nothing could stop it, and eventually the happy child had to be carried forth upon the sea-front to enjoy his innocent mirth at leisure and in solitude beneath the African stars. Mrs. Greyne did not notice his disappearance. She was intent upon important matters.
“At what time does Mr. Greyne usually set forth?” she asked of the proprietor, whose face now bore a strangely twisted appearance, as if afflicted by a toothache.
“Immediately after dinner, madame, if not before. Of late it has generally been before.”