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 dinner, chatting in the twilight, when she suddenly laid her hand on his arm.

“I want you to notice that man who has just gone by—the one smoking the fag-end of a cigar in a holder,” she whispered, with a gesture towards the stream of passengers passing and repassing between the rows of chairs.

Beaumanoir’s gaze followed her indication to an insignificant little figure in a brown covert-coat and tweed cap.

“Yes. What of him?” he asked. He had not spoken to this passenger, but now that attention was called to him he had an idea that the fellow had loomed largely during the last few days.

“That man is watching you, Mr. Hanbury,” replied Leonie with conviction. “I wonder you haven’t observed it yourself. Whenever you are talking he hangs about trying to listen; when you are on deck he is on deck; if you go below, he goes below. If you were a fugitive from justice, and he a detective, he couldn’t shadow you more closely.”

The Duke winced inwardly.

“I am not a fugitive from justice,” he said, ‘with the mental addition of “yet.” He could not tell this laughing maiden that the man was