I. A. R. Wylie

“ Frohlocken on the hotel terrace.
"Monsieur, a word wiz you!"
Dr. Frohlocken, immersed in a new theory of the subconscious, stopped resentfully.
"What is it? Who are you? What did you say you wanted?"
Monsieur Bonnet glanced cautiously round. No one was in sight except a small, eccentric looking visitor who sat in the shade, apparently lost in the contemplation of the heavens. Monsieur Bonnet laid a mysterious finger to his lips.
"I would ask you a question. You are a doctor—a famous doctor?"
"I believe so," returned Dr. Frohlocken more pleasantly.
"You are a man of honour?" ”

“ Monsieur Bonnet—this gentlemen here—has got his nose somewhere near the scent, but you've made altogether an astonishing fool of yourself, Dr. Frohlocken."
Dr. Frohlocken drew himself up with dignity.
"I expect proof of that statement, sir."
"Waal, I guess that's what I'm going to give you. You think this young man of yours is the Count de Beaulieu, don't you?"
"I do not. I never said so. I always protested—"
"Well, he isn't!"
"Bah!" said Monsieur Bonnet, and snapped his fingers triumphantly. Dr. Frohlocken ran his fingers wildly through his hair.
"Is this man mad?" he demanded. ”

“ From where he sat he could hear her crooning to herself over the afternoon's washing up and since he had told her that his heart was broken her singing was nothing short of callous. He knew what it all meant. ”