At eleven-thirty Lionel found himself enjoying a tÊte-À-tÊte supper in a Bloomsbury flat. He had obtained a cab, as commanded, and the lady and he had driven home together. There had been no adventures, no spies, no melodrama. In unromantic silence had they gone, for after the thrills of the afternoon and evening neither had been in the mood to talk. On reaching her flat, which was on the first floor, the lady had let herself in with a latch-key, and they had gone straight into the prettiest little sitting-room imaginable. Here a cold supper, simple but excellent, was laid: a bottle of hock and a siphon of lemonade were the only liquors visible. They supped together, talking briskly of various themes, but Lukos and the treaty were not mentioned till they had finished. When they had established themselves in armchairs and lighted a couple of cigarettes the lady said: "And now let me tell you what I want you to do. But first of all, will you please ring for coffee?"

Lionel obeyed, awaiting with some curiosity the expected newcomer. Would it be a smart maid, a mysterious man servant, or a crone with a history in every wrinkle? His doubts were speedily resolved. The door opened without noise, and there entered the most charming parlor maid the heart of man could wish. She was, of course, in a maid's livery—the black and white that is so simple, serviceable, and that can be so picturesque. Her figure was the trimmest imaginable, her eyes were a dusky brown, her hair was of jet. The last was arranged in a coiffure that a thoughtless man would have judged unstudied, but a schoolgirl of fifteen would have known its value at a glance. The features of this disturbing damsel were not faultless—the nose, for example, did not perfectly succeed, but her eyebrows looked as if they had been drawn by a painter, the mouth promised a treasury of kisses, and the complexion bespoke an air less rude than London's, for it shamed the most delicate of roses. Lionel was obliged to remind himself that the mistress had first claim on his affections.

"Clear the things, please, Mizzi," said the lady, not marking the stupor of her guest. "And then bring in coffee."

("Mizzi!" thought Lionel. "Then she is a German or Austrian. And I called myself a Teuto-phobe!")

The supper was speedily cleared and the coffee brought. The lady sipped reflectively for a few moments, and then plunged into the business.

"What I want you to do," she said abruptly, "is to help me break into a house."

Lionel was almost proof against surprises. You must remember that he had had some years of monotonous wear-and-tear at the hands of the world and at times longed for an adventure as some men long for drink. But he prided himself on his self-control, and had felt sure that he would meet any adventure with an assumption of ease, however joyful he might feel within. So far he had done pretty well: he had stopped a runaway horse, rescued a charming actress, spent a few thrilling hours in her company, and on the whole had kept himself in hand. But to be asked in a matter-of-fact tone to help in committing a felony was almost too much for his sang-froid. However, he remembered that good fortune has its price, and that great achievements need great sacrifices. Besides, she was so adorable, and he hated to back out of any enterprise.

"By all means," he said with a wan cheerfulness. "When shall I start?"

She laughed.

"That is so nice of you—not to ask why. I will tell you a little more, to assure you that our burglary is perfectly honorable. We start presently—in a day, two days, a week—I can not tell. The fact is that I think a crisis is approaching. I am sure that very soon a favorable opportunity will present itself to make use of the treaty. Some little time ago I determined to hide this document: it was no longer safe to keep it in my own hands."

"Why not a bank——" he began.

"My friend, you have no idea of the importance of the affair. Probably the bank would have been safe, but governments do not stick at trifles when the destinies of nations are at stake. Almost certainly a colossal bribe would have been offered, and even bank officials are human. So I resolved to be simple, original and daring. I hid the treaty in a house not far from here. How it was done I will tell you another time. What I want you to do is to help me regain it. I would go alone, but now I have begun to think it better to have an aide, in case I fail. You realize what it may mean if we are caught? A prison—for you must not explain. Can you do that?"

"I am ready," he said with a laugh. When she looked at him like that he felt that nothing mattered. Besides, it would be a thrill.

"Good," she said with enormous appreciation. "And now I am going to bed. I am very sleepy."

He rose, gloomily wondering when he should see her again. "Well," he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, "good night."

"You are going?" she asked in surprise. "But why? I want you to stop here."

Lionel's heart bounded, and then he looked at her. He was tempted to stay, for she was unlike any other girl he had ever met. But that very reason made him pause. He knew he wanted to kiss her and that he must not. He thought he was not in love with her, because he ought not to be. He knew that he would be in love with her if Lukos were dead. And because he felt that she mattered, he was resolved not to hurt her.

"I am sorry," he said, dropping his light tone. "I should like to, but—no!"

"Why not?" she asked, looking steadily at him. He looked as steadily at her.

"Convention," he said frankly. "If I stop here and people get to know, you will be slandered. That is why."

She was silent for a moment and then said softly: "You are better than I thought.... You must certainly stop. As for 'people'—well, I know the world and its miry ways. I know and I do not care."

"Your friends?" he suggested, rejoicing in her.

"I have only acquaintances, and they do not matter. Will that satisfy you?"

He fought against the temptation with a jest, for he felt that the pretty creature could not really know: "You forget the disappointment of Mrs. Barker."

She repeated the name wonderingly and he explained. "My landlady. If I do not return she will imagine I have run away to cheat her."

It was a poor jest, but only a jest, and he was benumbed at its effect. The lady frowned terribly upon him. Anger swept her lovely features like a thunder-cloud.

"How could you?" she cried in heavenly wrath. "How paltry! How pitiable! I knew you for a cheerful gentleman, but to find you a trivial scoffer——"

"Why, what have I done?" he stammered, amazed. "It was a mere joke—a laughing phrase—a word——"

"Done!" she echoed. "We were both upon the heights, and with your phrase—your joke—your word, you drag us down to the abyss of banality again. I——"

Her petulance annoyed him.

"Really, madam," he said bitingly, "I am sorry to have spoiled it—to have 'let down the scene,' as they say on the stage. But as I seem to have offended you I shall take my leave."

"If you do," she cried, "I shall never speak to you again. I swear it!"

He stood irresolute. After all, she looked such a darling when she was angry....

"Well," he said, temporizing, "if I stay for a while, will you promise to be sensible?"

"Never!" she flashed, stamping her foot, and darted from the room.

Amusement and anger struggled for the victory in Lionel's heart. "Confound her for her folly!" he thought, and then, "Bless her for her inconsequence!" He sat down and lighted a cigarette, expecting her return at any minute, determined to stick to his resolve and sleep at home.

When twenty minutes had passed he reflected, "She is standing on her dignity. How foolish!" Ten minutes later he murmured, with a pained accent, "She is human after all." By the time his fourth cigarette was half-consumed he had fairly lost his temper. "This is not good enough," he said; "I will let myself out and call to-morrow. If she refuses to see me, at least I shall have kept my self-respect. No woman shall treat me like a dog."

Grumbling, he opened the door and went quietly out into the hall. He listened for a moment, waiting to give her the chance to reappear and part as friends. There was no sound: if it had not been for the light still burning in the hall he would have sworn that the household had gone to sleep.

With a sigh he put on his hat and opened the inner door. He anticipated no trouble with the outer barrier, but in this he was wrong. It was padlocked, and flight was impossible. His sense of humor conquered resentment, and he smiled. "I give in," he thought: "well, I have tried to be a good boy." He hung up his hat again and returned to the sitting-room. Then he rang the bell. As he had expected, it was answered by the maid.

"Monsieur wishes to retire?" she asked, with a polite sympathy for a handsome man.

"I should prefer to be let to go home," he said pleasantly, "but I suppose I'm to be kept a prisoner."

The maid looked puzzled.

"Madame has locked the door and gone to sleep this half-hour. I dare not wake her for the keys. Besides, she expects you to remain."

"Then will you show me my room, please?" he said, accepting defeat. Whether Mizzi was as innocent as she seemed he could not decide, but now he was determined to let things take their course. She held the door open for him, and as he passed he caught an amused twinkle in her eyes. He yearned to give her a good shaking and say "Explain!" and presently kiss her heartily, for she was exceedingly attractive. This impulse he controlled, and the next moment found himself in his bedroom.

"Breakfast is at half past nine," said Mizzi, as she drew a curtain. "At what time does monsieur wish to be called?"

"Oh ... about nine o'clock ... thank you ... good night."

"Good night, monsieur," said the maid demurely as she tripped to the door, and then a lamentable accident occurred. It was due to the eccentricities of modern fashion. For several years Lionel had carried his handkerchief secreted in his cuff. As Mizzi stepped daintily past, the handkerchief, which had been working loose, fell to the ground. He and she stooped together for its recovery, and their heads approached nearer than was discreet. Her fingers reached the handkerchief first, and she restored it as they were rising. This was pardonable, but she ought not to have looked him in the face. Her eyes telegraphed "I like you," and his, something more. Without judicious reflection Lionel clasped her. "You are a perfect darling!" he whispered, "and I simply must kiss you—it is what you were made for."

"Oh, monsieur!" gasped Mizzi, "it is a scandal!"

"Yes," agreed Lionel, "I suppose it is. But it would be a graver scandal not to kiss such a bouquet of charms. There, my attractive morsel—another ... a butterfly salutation on your charming eyes, and ... good night."

Mizzi, with a stifled laugh, kissed him lightly in return, freed herself and escaped. Lionel, his sleepiness a thing of the past, sat down on the bed.

"Dash it!" he thought, wagging his head, "I oughtn't to have done that ... but it was exceedingly pleasant ... exceedingly pleasant ... yet I ought not to have yielded to temptation, for I was under the vague impression that I was in love with the maid's mistress. If so, I was disloyal, a creature of no account. Let us see whether there is not something to be said for the defense....

"Suppose I do love her—the mistress, I mean—I must not kiss her, because she is married. Doubtless it would be a fine thing to be loyal to the husband, the lady and the ideal—in short, neither kiss her nor any one else. In a word, become a sort of grass-bachelor.... A hard matter, for I am not cast in the ascetic mold, and Mizzi's lips are devilish tempting.... Suppose, now, the husband died (and I regret that I can not regard this contingency with disgust) and there were at least a sporting chance of my stepping into his shoes—oh! of course not at once, but later—later—why, then I could face permanent loyalty and temporary asceticism with a light heart.... But to go through the world refusing all sweets because my favorite sweet has been appropriated, surely that were foolish.

"Again, am I in love with her? Can one fall in love so suddenly, outside the realm of fiction? Is there not a great truth in the popular ballad that treats of 'a tiny seed of love'? Surely love is a seed, planted by chance or design—for example, by a match-making mama? The seed needs opportunity for gradual growth—the sun of frequent intercourse—the rain of timely separation—the fertilizer of presents of flowers and bonbons—before it can grow to a splendid harvest.... This harvest of mine can not be love; it must be passion. If so, it must be crushed.... She is too perfect to sully even in thought."

His brow grew gloomy, and he paced the room with feverish steps.

"No!" he said presently, "I feel pretty sure it is not passion pure and simple—or impure and complex if you like. Critics may sneer, but I can not help thinking it may soon be love, if it is not that already. Wherefore, I had better fly to do her errands as soon as possible.... But I can not accept the ascetic ideal ... yet. Hypothetical Mizzis may cross my path, and if they do I feel sure I shall kiss them, but the moment I see a possible chance of winning her, why, then I shall be very good.

"... 'Myes ... not very lofty ... but I want to be honest, and feel pretty sure that is what I shall do.... No doubt I shall not be happy, but...?"

With a dissatisfied growl he began to undress, and soon he was in bed. To quiet his uneasy conscience before he fell asleep he muttered, "And of course I shall do anything she tells me."

The unheroic but truthful pleasure-seeker then gave an unromantic snore.