Brock was breakfasting out-of-doors in the cheerful little garden of the Hotel Chatham. The sun streamed warmly upon the concrete floor of the court just beyond the row of palms and oleanders that fringed the rail against which his _Herald_ rested, that he might read as he ran, so to speak. He was the only person having _dejeuner_ on the "terrace," as he named it to the obsequious waiter who always attended him. Charles was the magnet that drew Brock to the Chatham (that excellent French hotel with the excellent English name). It is beside the question to remark that one is obliged to reverse the English when directing a _cocher_ to the Chatham. The Paris cabman looks blank and more than usu…
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