Sally was sitting with her back against a hillock of golden sand,watching with half-closed eyes the denizens of Roville-sur-Mer at theirfamiliar morning occupations. At Roville, as at most French seashoreresorts, the morning is the time when the visiting population assemblesin force on the beach. Whiskered fathers of families made cheerfulpatches of colour in the foreground. Their female friends and relativesclustered in groups under gay parasols. Dogs roamed to and fro, andchildren dug industriously with spades, ever and anon suspending theirlabours in order to smite one another with these handy implements. Oneof the dogs, a poodle of military aspect, wandered up to Sally: anddiscovering that she was in possession of a box of sweets, decided toremain and await developments.

　　Few things are so pleasant as the anticipation of them, but Sally'svacation had proved an exception to this rule. It had been a magic monthof lazy happiness. She had drifted luxuriously from one French town toanother, till the charm of Roville, with its blue sky, its Casino, itssnow-white hotels along the Promenade, and its general glitter andgaiety, had brought her to a halt. Here she could have stayedindefinitely, but the voice of America was calling her back. Gerald hadwritten to say that "The Primrose Way" was to be produced in Detroit,preliminary to its New York run, so soon that, if she wished to see theopening, she must return at once. A scrappy, hurried, unsatisfactoryletter, the letter of a busy man: but one that Sally could not ignore.

　　She was leaving Roville to-morrow.

　　To-day, however, was to-day: and she sat and watched the bathers with afamiliar feeling of peace, revelling as usual in the still novelsensation of having nothing to do but bask in the warm sunshine andlisten to the faint murmur of the little waves.

　　But, if there was one drawback, she had discovered, to a morning on theRoville plage, it was that you had a tendency to fall asleep: and thisis a degrading thing to do so soon after breakfast, even if you are on aholiday. Usually, Sally fought stoutly against the temptation, butto-day the sun was so warm and the whisper of the waves so insinuatingthat she had almost dozed off, when she was aroused by voices close athand. There were many voices on the beach, both near and distant, butthese were talking English, a novelty in Roville, and the sound of thefamiliar tongue jerked Sally back from the borders of sleep. A few feetaway, two men had seated themselves on the sand.

　　From the first moment she had set out on her travels, it had been one ofSally's principal amusements to examine the strangers whom chance threwin her way and to try by the light of her intuition to fit them out withcharacters and occupations: nor had she been discouraged by an almostconsistent failure to guess right. Out of the corner of her eye sheinspected these two men.

　　The first of the pair did not attract her. He was a tall, dark manwhose tight, precise mouth and rather high cheeks bones gave him anappearance vaguely sinister. He had the dusky look of the clean-shavenman whose life is a perpetual struggle with a determined beard. Hecertainly shaved twice a day, and just as certainly had the self-controlnot to swear when he cut himself. She could picture him smiling nastilywhen this happened.