on the following afternoon tinker met madame de belle-île hurrying out of the hotel in a scarlet travelling costume.

at the sight of him she stopped short and cried, "have you heard the sad news?"

"no; what sad news?" said tinker.

"about poor monsieur courtnay! he has had an accident; he is laid up at nice, ill among strangers! i go; i fly to nurse him!"

"nurse that brute!" said tinker quickly. "that—that is a waste of kindness."

madame de belle-île's face fell, and then flushed with anger. "you are a horrid and detestable boy!" she cried angrily.

"oh, no! i'm not! it's quite true," said tinker quietly, and he looked at her seriously. he wanted to warn her; then he saw that he could not do so without revealing claire's secret. "i wish i could tell you about him," he went on. "but i can't. he really is a sweep!"

"you are an impertinent little wretch!" she said, and left him.

"au revoir," said tinker gently.

but she only tossed her head, and hurried on. yet tinker's honest expression of opinion had impressed her: she had a belief in the instinct of children generally and, like most people who came into contact with him, she had a strong belief in the instinct of tinker. she tried to forget his words; but they kept recurring to her, and in spite of herself, unconsciously, they put her on her guard.

tinker watched her out of sight, then he had half a thought of telling claire that she had gone to courtnay, doubtless at his summons. but he saw quickly that there was no need, and dismissed the thought from his mind. also, he kept out of his cousin's way for some days; he had a feeling that,—however grateful she might be to him, the sight of him, reminding her of how badly courtnay had behaved, would be unpleasant to her.

however, he watched her from a distance, and saw that she was pale and listless. then he saw with great pleasure that lord crosland contrived to be with her a good deal, that he even neglected the system for her. but for all this pleasure, he was not quite easy in his mind; the knowledge that he had done his grand-uncle bumpkin the service of saving him from such a son-in-law as courtnay was a discomfort to him: he felt that this was a matter which must be set right, and he kept his eyes open for a chance. he looked, too, for the return of courtnay and madame de belle-île; but the days passed and they did not return.

one morning he found himself in an unhappy mood. it seemed to him that his wits had come to a standstill; for three days no new mischief had come the way of his idle hands, and his regular, dally, mischievous practices had grown so regular as almost to have acquired the tastelessness of duties. the peculiar brightness and gaiety of monte carlo life had begun to pall upon him. loneliness was eating into his soul; for of all the french boys who paraded the gardens of the temple of fortune, he could make nothing. their costumes, which were of velvet and satin and lace, revolted him; their lack of spirit, their distaste for violent movement, their joy in parading their revolting costumes filled him with wondering contempt. as for the little french girls, he was at any time uninterested in girls; and these spindle-shanked precocities walked on two-inch heels, and tried to fascinate him with the graces of mature coquettes. his careful politeness was hard put to it to conceal his distaste for their conversation. possibly he was hankering after a healthier life; but at any rate he, who was generally so full of energy, had mooned listlessly about the gardens all the morning, with a far-away look in his eyes, and the air of a strayed seraph.

during his mooning about he had passed several times a little girl who looked english. she sat on a seat in the far corner—a strange, shy, timid child, watching with a half-frightened wonder the strikingly-dressed women and children who strolled up and down, chattering shrilly. he gave her but indifferent glances as he passed; but, thanks to his father's careful training of his natural gift of observation, the indifferent glance of that child of the world took in more of a fellow-creature than most men's careful scrutiny. he saw that she was frail and big-eyed, that her frock was ill-fitting and shabby, her hat shabbier, her shoes ready-made, that she wore no gloves, and that her mass of silky hair owed its unsuccessful attempts at tidiness to her own brushing. he summed her up as that archetype of patience, the gambler's neglected child.

just before he went to his déjeuner, he saw that she was sitting there still. he took that meal with his father and lord crosland; and instead of hurrying off, directly he had eaten his dessert, to some pressing and generally mischievous business, he sat listening to their talk over their coffee and cigars, and only left them at the doors of the casino. he strolled along the terrace, moody and disconsolate, able to think of nothing to amuse him, and, as he came to the end of the gardens, he saw a group of french children gathered in front of the seat on which the little girl was sitting, and, coming nearer, he heard jeering cries of "sale anglaise! sale anglaise!"

in a flash tinker's face shone with a very ecstasy of pure delight, and he swooped down on the group. the child was clutching the arm of the seat, and staring at her tormentors with parted lips and terrified eyes. for their part, they were enjoying themselves to the full. they had found a game which afforded them the maximum of pleasure, with the minimum of effort; and just as tinker swooped down, a cropped and bullet-headed boy in blue velvet threw a handful of gravel into her face. she threw up her hands and burst into tears; the children's laughter rose to a shrill yell; and with extreme swiftness tinker caught the bullet-headed boy a ringing box on the right ear and another on the left. the boy squealed, turned, clawing and kicking, on tinker, and, in ten seconds of crowded life, had learned the true significance of those cryptic terms an upper-cut on the potato-trap, a hook on the jaw, a rattler on the conk, and a buster on the mark. he lay down on the path to digest the lesson, and his little friends fled, squealing, away.

the little girl slipped off the seat and said "thank you," between two sobs.

tinker's face was one bright, seraphic smile as he took off his hat, and, with an admirable bow, said, "may i take you to your people?"

the bullet-headed boy rose to his feet and staggered away.

"uncle's still in that big house," said the little girl, striving bravely to check her sobs.

"that's a nuisance," said tinker thoughtfully; "for we can't get at him."

"i think he's forgotten all about me. he often does," said the little girl, without any resentment; and she dusted the gravel off her frock.

"i might bolt in and remind him."

"they won't let us in—only grown-ups," said the little girl. "uncle tried to get them to let me in; but they wouldn't."

"they're used to letting me in," said tinker—"and hauling me out again," he added. "it brightens them up. you tell me what he's like."

being a girl, the child was able to describe her uncle accurately: but when she had done, tinker shook his head:

"he must be just like a dozen other englishmen in there," he said. "and they wouldn't give me time to ask each one if he were your uncle."

the little girl sighed, and said, "it doesn't matter, thank you," and, sitting down again on the seat, resumed her patient waiting, drooping forward with eyes rather dim.

tinker studied her face, and his keen eye told him what was wrong.

"have you had déjeuner?" he said sharply.

"no-o-o," said the little girl reluctantly.

"then you've had nothing since your coffee this morning?"

"no, but it doesn't matter. uncle is rather forgetful," said the little girl, but her lips moved at the thought of food as a hungry child's will.

"this won't do at all! come along with me. it's rather late, but we'll find something."

her face brightened for a moment; but she shook her head, and said, "no, i mustn't go away from here. uncle might come back, and he would be so angry if he had to look for me."

tinker shrugged his shoulders, turned on his heel, and was gone. she looked after him sadly. she would have liked him to stay a little longer; it was so nice to talk to an english boy after ten days in this strange land; and he seemed such a nice boy. but she only drooped a little more, and stared out over the bright sea with misty eyes, composing herself to endure her hunger.

tinker went swiftly to the restaurant of the hôtel des princes, where the waiters greeted him with affectionate grins, and, addressing himself to the manager, set forth his new friend's plight, and his wishes. the manager fell in with them on the instant, only too pleased to have the chance of obliging his most popular customer; and, in five minutes, tinker left the restaurant followed by a waiter bearing a tray of dainties, all carefully chosen to tempt the appetite of a child. they took their way to the gardens, and the little girl brightened up at the sight of the returning tinker. but when the waiter set the tray on the seat, she flushed painfully, and though she could not draw her hungry eyes away from the food, she stammered, "t-t-thank you very m-m-much. b-b-but i haven't any money."

tinker gave the waiter a couple of francs, and bade him come for the tray in half an hour. then he said cheerfully, "that's all right. the food's paid for; and whether you eat it or not makes no difference. in fact, you may as well."

the child looked from his face to the food and back again, wavering; then said, with a little gasp, "oh, i am so hungry."

tinker took this for a consent, put some aspic of pâté de foie gras on her plate, and watched her satisfy her hunger with great pleasure, which was not lessened by the fact that, for all her hunger, she ate with a delicate niceness. he had feared from her neglected air that her manners had also been neglected. after the aspic, he carved the breast of the chicken for her, helped her to salad, and mixed the ice water with the sirop to exactly the strength he liked himself; after the chicken, he helped her to meringues, and after the meringues lighted the kirsch of the poires au kirsch, which he had chosen because it always pleased him to see the kirsch burn, and ate one of the pears himself, while she ate the others. when she had finished her little sigh of content warmed his heart.

he put the tray behind the seat, and settled down beside her for a talk. now that she was no longer hungry, she was no longer woebegone, and her laugh, though faint, was so pretty that he found himself making every effort to set her laughing. they talked about themselves with the simple egoism of children; and he learned that her name was elsie brand; that she was ten years old—nearly two years younger than himself—that her mother had died many years ago, and that she had lived with her father in his devonshire parsonage by the sea till last year, when he, too, had died. then her uncle richard had taken her away to live with him in london. her story of her life in london lodgings set tinker wondering about that uncle richard, and piecing together the details elsie let fall about his late rising, his late going to bed, his morning headache and distaste for breakfast, he came to the conclusion that he was a bad hat who lived by his somewhat inferior wits.

at the end of her story he tried to persuade her to come to the sea with him and seek amusement there. but he failed; she would not leave the seat. he gathered, indeed, from her fear of vexing her uncle that that bad hat was in the habit of slapping her if she angered him, and, for a breath, he was filled with a fierce indignation which surprised him; she looked so frail. but he did not ask her if it were so, for his delicacy forewarned him that the question would provoke a struggle between her loyalty and her truthfulness. he entertained her, therefore, with his reminiscences, and enjoyed to the full the admiration and wonder which filled her face as he talked. absorbed in one another, they paid no heed to the passing of the hours; and the sudden fall of twilight surprised them.

they began to speculate whether uncle richard had had enough of his gambling, and would come and fetch her. but, even now, elsie was not impatient, so inured had she been to neglect. she only looked anxious again. tinker, on the other hand, was impatient, very impatient, with uncle richard, whom he was disposed to regard as a gentleman in great need of a kicking. moreover, the chill hour after sunset, so dangerous on that littoral, was upon them, and he considered with disquiet the thin stuff of the child's frock.

presently he said abruptly, "i've promised my father to wear an overcoat during the fever hour. i must be off and get it, and a wrap for you. you won't be frightened, if i leave you alone?"

"no," elsie said bravely, but her tone belied the word.

"well, walk up and down quickly, so that you don't get a chill. if you keep near the seat, your uncle can't miss you if he comes."

"very well," said elsie, rising obediently. "only—only—if you could get back soon."

"i will," said tinker, and he bolted for the hotel.

elsie walked up and down, trying to feel brave, but the odd shapes which the bushes assumed in the dim light daunted her not a little, and she strove to drive away the fancy that she saw people lurking among them. tinker was gone a bare seven minutes; but to the timid child it seemed a very long while, and she welcomed his return with a gasp of relief.

he wore a smart, close-fitting brown racing overcoat, which reached to his ankles; and for her he brought his fur-lined ulster.

"here i am," he said cheerfully. "get into this," and he held out the ulster.

she put her arms into the sleeves, and he drew it around her and buttoned it up.

"you are a kind boy," she said, with a little break in her voice. a sudden strong but inexplicable impulse moved tinker; he bent forward and kissed her on the lips.

while you might count a score the children stood quite still, staring at one another with eyes luminous in the starlight. elsie's face was one pink flush, and tinker was scarlet.

"that—that was a very funny kiss," she said in a curious voice.

"oh, what's a kiss?" said tinker, with forced bravado, consumed with boyish shame for the lapse.

"i—i—liked it," said elsie. "no one has kissed me since father died." and her breath seemed to catch.

"girls like kissing," said tinker in a tone of a dispassionate observer. then he seemed to thrust the matter away from him with some eagerness: and, slipping her arm through his, he said, "come on, let's walk up and down."

they walked up and down, chattering away, till eight o'clock. then he said, "my father will be expecting me; he dines at eight. won't you come too?"

"no, no, thank you. i must wait for uncle richard; i must really." but her arm tightened round his involuntarily.

tinker thought a while. the gardens were brighter now. the stars were shining with their full radiance, and the lamps were alight, so that even their retired corner was faintly bright.

"well, you go on walking up and down. you won't feel so lonely as sitting still, and i'll be back as soon as i can;" he said, and off he went.

he found his father and lord crosland beginning their soup, and, sitting down, he told them of elsie's plight. they were duly sympathetic; and his father at once gave him leave to take some dinner to her, and dine with her. thereupon, after a brief but serious conference with the manager, tinker departed, again followed by a waiter with a tray. elsie had not looked for his return for a long while; and she was indeed pleased to be so soon freed from the struggle against her timidity.

they ate their dinner with great cheerfulness and good appetite, and for an hour after it they chattered away happily. then elsie grew drowsy, very drowsy, indeed, and presently, nestled against tinker, she fell asleep. fortunately, the southern night was warm, and, in the fur-lined ulster, she could take no harm. he sat holding her to him, listening to her breathing, looking out over the sea, and revolving many memories and more schemes, till, at last, the lights began to dance before his eyes, and he, too, fell asleep.

he knew no more until he was awakened by someone shaking his arm, and found his father and lord crosland standing over them.

the lamps of the casino and the gardens were out; only the dim starlight lighted the scene. the two children sat up and stared about them—elsie sleepily, tinker wide awake.

"we've found you at last. hasn't your little friend's uncle come for her?" said sir tancred.

"no one has come," said tinker.

sir tancred and lord crosland looked at one another.

"desertion," murmured lord crosland softly.

"well, come along," said sir tancred cheerfully. "we must put her up for to-night."

the children slipped off the seat; tinker put elsie's arm through his, and, holding her up when she stumbled over the long ulster, followed his father and lord crosland.

there were some empty bedrooms in their corridor, and elsie was settled for the night in one of them.

tinker awoke next morning, very cheerful at the thought of having a companion to join in his amusements. he made haste to knock at elsie's door, and bid her come out for a swim before their coffee. she was soon dressed and found him waiting for her. she flushed a little as she greeted him, and he greeted her with a seraph's smile.

"i thought you'd like a bathe before our coffee," he said.

"it would be nice," said elsie wistfully. "but my hair—it is such a trouble, even without being wetted by sea-water."

tinker looked at the fine silky mass of it, and said with sympathetic seriousness, "i saw it was beyond you; but we'll manage."

he caught her hand, they ran down the stairs, out of the hotel, and most of the way to the beach. then he took her to a lady's bathing-tent, and instructed the attendant to provide elsie with the prettiest costume she had; changed himself, and in five minutes they were in the sea. to his joy, he found that she could swim nearly as well as he. but he was very careful of her, and the moment she looked cold he took her ashore.

they came back to the hotel very hungry; and tinker led the way through the passages at the back of the hall, down into the hotel kitchen, where he was welcomed with affectionate joy by the kitchen staff. the end of a long table had been laid with the finest napery and plate of the hotel; they sat down at it, and were forthwith served with an exquisitely cooked dish of fresh mullet, wonderful hot cakes, and steaming cups of fragrant café au lait. as he breakfasted, tinker conversed with the chattering staff with a cheerful kindliness and a thorough knowledge of all their private concerns, keeping elsie informed of the matters under discussion by such phrases as "it's adolphe's wife; she beats him;" or, "lucie has consulted a fortune-teller, who says she is going to marry a millionaire;" or, "jean's eldest daughter has just made her first communion; they say she looked like a pretty little angel." but he did not tell her of the chaffing congratulations heaped on him on the prospect of his settling down with his beautiful blonde demoiselle. he accepted them with a smile of angelic indulgence.

when they had done they went upstairs; and, on the way, tinker said, "i must have a shot at that hair of yours; it—it really gets on my nerves."

"it's no use," said elsie with her ready flush. "i brush it as well as i can; but i can't do it very well, there's such a lot of it."

"well, i'll do what i can," said tinker, and he measured with thoughtful eye the silken mass, tangled and matted by the sea-water.

he led the way into his room, and set her in a chair, took off his coat, turned up his sleeves, took his hair brushes, and began upon it. it was his first essay as coiffeur, but his natural and trained deftness stood him in good stead. he kept a watchful eye on her face in the glass, and whenever it puckered, brushed more gently; but, at times, in his absorption in his task, he so far forgot himself as to hiss like a groom cleaning a horse. in the middle of it sir tancred came in, and it was significant that he saw tinker's occupation without a smile, made no joke upon it, but seemed to take it as the most natural thing in the world that his son should be discharging a function of the lady's maid. he greeted the children gravely, sat down, and watched the brushing with a respectful attention. now and again he asked elsie a question, which seemed too idle to be impertinent, but her answers told him all he wished to know; and presently he felt, with tinker, that her uncle was a gentleman in great need of kicking.

at last tinker had finished; elsie rose with a luxurious sigh, and he looked at his work with fond pride. it was very beautiful, fine hair; and its sheen of changing light well repaid him for his trouble. sir tancred proposed that they should stroll down to the casino, and find her uncle. lord crosland joined them in the hall and went with them. when they came to the casino, they found a little crowd already gathered about its doors, waiting for them to open.

but richard brand was not in it, and at once elsie's face grew anxious. as soon as the doors opened, sir tancred went in to ask if her uncle has made any inquiries about elsie, or left word where she might find him. in ten minutes he came out again and said, "no; he has made no inquiries. suppose you stroll with elsie along towards the condamine, crosland; that is the way he would come. tinker and i will wait here."

lord crosland looked at his face, said, "come along, missie," and strolled off with the anxious child.

when they were out of hearing, sir tancred said, "i'm afraid the child is in a bad mess. this disgusting uncle of hers lost every penny at roulette last night; and the authorities, with their usual kindness, took his ticket to london, and put him in the train with twenty-five francs in his pocket."

"what a cad!" said tinker shortly.

"well, she is on our hands, and we must look after her till we can make arrangements—deposit her in a home or something."

tinker said nothing for a while; he seemed plunged in profound thought. he kicked a little stone ten yards away; then raised his eyes to his father's face and said, in the firm voice of one whose mind is made up, "i should like to adopt her."

"adopt her?" said sir tancred with some surprise.

"yes; i should like to, very much."

"well, thanks to your industry in the matter of flying-machines and stolen children, you have a nice little income, so we needn't consider the question of expense. you can afford it. but in what capacity would you adopt her—as father, uncle, guardian, or what? the formalities must be observed."

"i think as a brother," said tinker.

sir tancred thought a while, then he said, "you will find it a great responsibility."

"yes; but i don't mind. i—i like her, don't you know!"

sir tancred's stern face relaxed into one of his rare and charming smiles. "very good," he said. "you shall adopt her."

"thank you, sir," said tinker, and his smile matched his father's. "and may i have some money to dress her? her clothes are dreadful."

"they are," said sir tancred; and, taking out his notecase, he gave him a thousand-franc note.

"thank you," said tinker, beaming. "i'll break it to her about her uncle."

he hurried off towards the condamine, and overtaking elsie and lord crosland, told her that it was all right, that they had arranged to take care of her for a few days, and carried her away to fetch blazer, for his morning walk. it is to be feared that he gave her the impression that her uncle had been a party to the arrangement, but by a flood of talk he diverted successfully her mind from the matter. from an unworthy jealousy blazer was at first disposed to sniff at elsie, but when he found that she joined heartily in the few poor amusements the place afforded an honest dog, he became more gracious. the children made their déjeuner with sir tancred and lord crosland, and after it, having restored the reluctant blazer to his lodging in the basement of the hotel, they took the train to nice.

tinker hired the largest commissionaire at the station and bought a small trunk, which he gave him to carry. then he went straight to madame aline's and, having insisted on seeing madame herself, explained that the bright and elaborate fashions affected by the little french girls would not suit elsie.

madame agreed with him, but said, "simplicity is so expensive."

tinker waved away the consideration, and showed madame the thousand-franc note. at once she fell a victim to his irresistible charm, and set about meeting his taste with the liveliest energy, with the result that in less than an hour elsie was provided with an evening frock of an exquisite shade of heliotrope, an afternoon frock of no less exquisite shade of blue, and a hat, stockings, and gloves to match. they were packed in the trunk, and with them two pairs of shoes, which madame sent for from a no less expensive bootmaker, and various other garments.

when they came out of her shop, tinker considered for a while the hole he had made in the thousand-franc note, and said, "the time has come to be economical."

he examined the shops with a keen eye till he came to one which seemed more of the popular kind, and there he bought a frock of serge and three of dark-blue linen, stouter shoes, slippers, and two hats. here he waited while elsie changed, and when she came out, looking another creature, he said with a sigh of relief, "i knew you'd look all right if you had a chance."

they had ices at a café, and caught a train back to monte carlo. elsie seemed dazed with her sudden wealth, while tinker was full of a quiet, restful satisfaction. but it was in the evening that the great triumph came. when she came out of her room in her evening frock, tinker regarded her for a moment with a satisfaction that was almost solemn, then he turned her round and said, "we match."

"do you really think so?" said elsie in an awed voice, with humid eyes.

"there's no doubt about it," said tinker, with calm, dispassionate, and judicial impartiality.

when they came into the restaurant there was a faint murmur of delighted surprise from the tables they passed; and one stout, but sentimental baroness cried, "violà des séraphin!"

and truly, if you can conceive of a seraph in an eton suit, a low-cut white waistcoat, and a white tie, there was something in what she said.

at the sight of them sir tancred smiled, and lord crosland said, "i congratulate you on your taste, young people."

"it was tinker's," said elsie; and she looked at him with a world of thankfulness and devotion in her eyes.

after dinner tinker was uncomfortable. he felt bound to break to elsie her uncle's desertion, and he was afraid of tears. with a vague notion of emphasising the difference between her uncle's régime and his own, he led the way to the corner of the gardens where they had first met and, standing before the seat on which she had waited so long and hungrily, he said, "i say, don't you think we could do without your uncle?"

"do without uncle?" said elsie surprised.

"yes; suppose, instead of living with your uncle and his looking after you, you lived with us, and i looked after you? suppose you were to be my adopted sister?"

"for good and all?" said elsie in a hushed voice.

"yes."

for answer she threw her arms round his neck, kissed him, and cried, "oh, i do love you so."

by a splendid effort tinker repressed a wriggle.

"we'll consider it settled, then," he said.

elsie loosed him. with a little deprecating cough, and a delicate tentativeness, he said, "about kissing, of course, now that you're my sister you have a right to kiss me sometimes; and—and—of course it's all right. but don't you think you could manage with once a day—when we say good-night?"

"in the morning, too," said elsie greedily.

"well, twice a day," said tinker with a sigh.