An awful thing happened here yesterday. Just a week ago a young woman was seen wandering about under the trees at Cap Martin and crying—all day. Nobody spoke to page 26 her. At dusk a little boy heard her crying for help. She was in the sea about fifteen feet from land. By the time he had told somebody it was dark and she had disappeared. Her purse and jacket were on the beach. She had a return ticket to Nice—five francs and a handkerchief in it—that was all. Yesterday the sea washed her up just opposite the Villa. She came rolling, rolling in with each wave and they waited till she was tumbled on the beach. All her clothes were gone except her corset. Her arms and feet were gone and her hair was bound round and round her head and face—dark brown hair. She doesn't belong to a soul. No one claims her. I expect they'll shovel her under to-day. Poor soul—