The Mevrouw, Sumatra-bound out of Amsterdam, had dropped the low Holland coast an hour behind that day in 1925, when I recognized a familiar figure among the miscellany of Dutch colonials. The little man with the erect, military carriage, trimly waxed mustache and direct, challenging blue eyes was as conspicuous amid the throng of over-fleshed planters, traders and petty administrators as a fleur-de-lis growing in the midst of a cabbage patch.
Mevrouwfleur-de-lis“For the Lord’s sake, de Grandin! What are you doing here?” I demanded, seizing him by the hand. “I thought you’d gone back to your microscopes and test tubes when you cleared up the Broussac mystery.”
He grinned at me like a blond brother of Mephistopheles as he linked his arm in mine and caught step with me. “Eh bien,” he agree
