“Not often. Perhaps once a week in the season. She comes shopping,” replied the grizzled old man, hitching up his box containing his letters.
“Look here, my friend,” exclaimed the stranger. “Tell me something more about that lady.” And he slipped a two-franc piece into the man’s hand.
“Ah! I fear I know but little—only what people say, m’sieur.”
“What do they say?”
“That Madame the Countess, who is French, is a most devoted wife, although she is such a great lady—one of the greatest ladies in England, I believe. I have heard that they have half-a-dozen houses, and are enormously wealthy.”
“Rich—eh?” remarked the inquirer, and his keen, dark eyes sparkled. “You know nothing more?”
“No, m’sieur. But I daresay there are people out at St. Addresse who know much more than I do.”
“Bien. Bon jour,” said the stranger, and he passed on, eager to make other and more diligent inquiries.
And the stranger, whose name was “Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal.,” was the same man who had watched the Earl of Bracondale depart in his car, and who now descended to the beach, following in the footsteps of the Countess.