When War came, Julian Froelich, known to his friends as “Bobby,” found himself in a situation which in his wildest dreams he had never contemplated. This is not surprising, considering that his mental activities had been exclusively limited to procuring himself what he called “a good time.” In that brief phrase could be summed up Bobby’s entire philosophy, and when he suddenly had to face a state of things which from one moment to another swept away the groundwork upon which his life reposed, it is no wonder that he felt himself “knocked out.” With incredible velocity his friends were caught up and whirled in every direction like cockle-shells in a hurricane. Their haunts knew them no more, and before he could realize his personal concern with catastrophic events Bobby became a disconsolate wanderer in search of the flotsam and jetsam which were all that remained of his demolished world.

For a time Bobby was unnerved. At first singly, then by twos, by threes, by dozens, those with whom his life had been spent—frequenters of the restaurant, the racecourse, the tavern, and the theatre—followed one another in a headlong race to the unknown. His brain reeled under successive shocks. He was awestruck by the appalling suddenness of death and destruction. Daring no inquiry, avoiding those whose faces he dreaded to read, he forsook his former luxurious resorts and almost slunk into the corners of obscure eating-places and cafÉs in Soho.

Bobby will not easily forget those first few weeks of the War.

Then gradually he pulled himself together, and unable to escape the influence by which he was surrounded, he tried to take his little part in the common effort. But his training was against him. At forty-five years of age it is no easy task for any man to put the past behind him and begin afresh; for Bobby to have done so would have needed a strength of will and character which he never at any time in his life possessed. He did succeed in getting various jobs, but one after another he threw them up. In each case he found a suitable excuse for himself and an explanation for his friends; there was always some insuperable reason why he was “obliged to chuck it,” and he finally resigned himself to a form of existence which differed from his former one, but only in degree.

In the early months of the War, before restrictions were placed upon ordinary travellers, Bobby began going to Paris again, for although he felt if possible even more there than in London the changes brought about by the War, the old habit was too strong to resist; the journey itself provided a reaction against the depression which overshadowed him.

Some time after von Kluck had been hurled back from the gates of Paris—it must have been shortly after the return of the French Government from Bordeaux—Bobby found himself arriving at the Gare du Nord. He had engaged his apartment, as usual, at the HÔtel Ritz, and was about to step into the car which even in such times as these was sent to meet him, when a lady approached and asked him if he would mind taking her to her destination, as there was neither cab nor car to be found at the station. Bobby’s experienced eye took in the stranger at a glance; she was unquestionably attractive, and with something of the old spirit he placed himself and his car at her disposal. It so happened that there was no inconvenience attached to the favour, which the lady acknowledged with becoming grace, for her destination was the same as his, and by the time Bobby had deposited her and her maid at the hotel they had struck up a quite promising acquaintance.

Several days passed, and Bobby’s chance meeting ripened into an engrossing adventure.

Many officers in those early days were continually passing through Paris on their way to the Front or arriving there on short leave. There were all sorts of other visitors—officials and bearers of dispatches, diplomatists and cosmopolitan adventurers out for gain, not to speak of their wives, sisters, and other female attachments. Some of these Bobby knew, others he met, and not a few of them were well enough pleased to accept his society, if only to profit by his ciceronage as evening advanced. But on this occasion Bobby had no eyes for chance encounters. His time was fully occupied, and he had come to the conclusion that his new acquaintance was the most tempting and fascinating creature Fate had ever cast across his path. He had, in fact, constituted himself her permanent escort.

Her chief occupation seemed to consist in visiting people who lived in various parts of Paris, where Bobby invariably accompanied her in the car he had engaged chiefly for her benefit, and he observed that she had a considerable acquaintance among people whom she came across at the hotel or in the various restaurants and theatres they frequented. But she never seemed to do more than bow to them, and though it was evident that her appearance aroused flattering notice, she discouraged attentions and was smilingly evasive when approached. Nevertheless, she was full of engagements. One day she would have an appointment at eleven in the morning near the Arc de Triomphe, in the afternoon in the Boulevard Malesherbes; the next day it would be near the OdÉon in the morning and at a turning out of the Place Pigalle in the afternoon. On such occasions she would sweetly ask him to drop her at a certain place and to fetch her at a certain time; then she would disappear and Bobby would be left to spend the interval kicking his heels.

She dressed modestly in a taste that was quiet and restrained. Without being beautiful, her features were clear-cut, almost strong, and there was a radiancy about her smile and a gaiety in her brown eyes that Bobby found perfectly entrancing. She was no longer quite young; she might have been thirty; indeed, her hair, which was dark brown, was ever so slightly touched with silver, but this seemed to add to her attractiveness, which resided perhaps more in her complete naturalness than in any other quality. Bobby noticed that, unlike nearly all the women he knew, she used no colour on her lips, and only lightly dusted her face with powder, but her cheeks seemed always to have a bloom upon them as on grapes from a hothouse.

He found her a most delightful companion, always ready to talk about the things that interested him most and to go anywhere he liked, provided that it did not clash with any of her private engagements.

But never in his experience had Bobby been so puzzled. He simply could not make out who or what she really was. This mystery, if anything, deepened her attraction for him. Her name was Madame de Corantin, and in answer to his inquiry she told him her Christian name was Francine, but he had not so far dared to call her by it. She had an extraordinary power of quietly checking any attempt on his part to make tender advances. He could not himself have explained how it was done, but she contrived to make him feel that any suggestion of familiarity would put an end to their intercourse, and for nothing in the world would he have risked it. Indeed, in his loose-endedness, he looked upon the whole adventure as a special dispensation of Providence in his favour. Madame de Corantin was to him like a beacon to a lonely wayfarer who has lost his way in the night. To act as her escort and protector was, quite apart from the deeper feeling she inspired, a new object in life for him. Ever since their first meeting his depression had left him; his existence had once more regained its savour.

She had frequently asked him to post letters for her, and sometimes to call at the hotel for them; her correspondence seemed to be large, and the envelopes bore the stamps of various countries, chiefly Russia. She spoke English and French equally well, with a slight foreign accent, which she explained by saying that she was Russian by birth, but had married a French diplomatist, who died in Brazil; she said, too, that she had travelled a great deal, and had spent much of her time in South America, where she had been in the habit of speaking Spanish. Perhaps, had Bobby’s companion been less attractive, he might have been more interested in these matters, but he was absorbed by her personality and troubled little about anything else.

Ever bright, vivacious, and in good spirits, she awakened Bobby to a new interest in life. The philosophy with which she regarded tumultuous events, the easy cynicism with which she dismissed a discussion which bordered upon the serious, seemed to deprive him of any means of enlightening himself as to her real sympathies.

Several times he had suggested that some friend should join them at dinner or at the theatre, but she opposed it with a velvety firmness. “We are so well like this,” she would say. “Why should we spoil it?” And Bobby was delighted beyond measure.

The days passed. Bobby’s original intention had been to remain in Paris only a week, but he was fully determined to stop on as long as Madame de Corantin accepted his companionship. If he stayed there until the end of the War, he did not care, provided he could be with her.

About this time Bobby, waiting one evening in the hall of the hotel for Madame de Corantin to come down to dinner, observed a familiar figure in Staff uniform. It was Alistair Ramsey. They exchanged salutations, but Ramsey’s manner was marked by a hauteur which even Bobby, good-natured as he was, could not fail to notice. At that moment Madame de Corantin stepped out of the lift, and with a “See you later,” to which the other responded by a curt nod, Bobby went to meet her. As she greeted him she stood still an instant, apparently looking at some one behind him, and Bobby turned sharply to follow her eyes. They were fixed on Alistair Ramsey, who was staring back at her with a look of astonishment.

The restaurant was fuller than usual, but their table was always reserved, and Bobby (who prides himself on his taste in such matters) looked forward to the little compliment he regularly received for the appropriateness of his menu. But on this occasion Madame de Corantin seemed to be oblivious of menu and of Bobby alike. She sat apparently lost in thought, and, eating mechanically what was placed before her, replied with monosyllables to Bobby’s attempts at conversation. Then, of a sudden, her face cleared like the sky on an April day.

“Pardon me, my friend, I fear I have been very ill-mannered. I have received an annoying letter, and was thinking about it.”

Bobby was full of concern. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

She looked at him with a half-smile. “Who knows? Perhaps!”

“Do tell me. You know I long to be of use to you, and there is so little that I can do.”

“But who could do more? No lonely woman could ask for a more devoted cavalier.” Her appreciative glance was nectar to Bobby. So susceptible was he to the expression of her eyes, he would have been powerless to resist anything they asked of him. But he had never been put to the test; on the contrary, she had accepted with demur even the comparatively trifling services he had been able to render her. She was most punctilious in regard to any expense to which he was put, and insisted, to his discomfiture, on paying her share of everything. At first they had little quarrels about it, but Bobby had been compelled to give way to her firm but gracious insistence.

“Tell me, my friend”—her eyes played full upon him as she spoke—“who was that gentleman you were talking to just before dinner?”

For a moment Bobby hesitated. If there were one man in all his acquaintance whom he would have preferred that Madame de Corantin should not know, it was Alistair Ramsey. Bobby had known him for a good many years. The acquaintance dated back to a period when Ramsey was a comparatively young man of fashionable manner and appearance on half-commission with a firm of stockbrokers. Even then he aspired to smart society, but this social recognition involved an expenditure considerably beyond his earning capacity. In those days Bobby had been of no small use to him. Many were the dinners to which Ramsey had done the inviting, he the paying, and if that gentleman of fashion was not above accepting the lavish attentions of the man about town, whom he regarded as quite outside his own world, still less was he averse to the loans forthcoming at moments of embarrassment, accompanied by a thinly veiled hint from Bobby that they were repayable only when circumstances permitted.

Bobby was not calculating, but without any deep reflection on the subject he knew that Ramsey was “on the make,” and it was not unreasonable to expect him to have at least a kindly feeling for an old friend when he “arrived.” In this, however, he was disappointed. Though with the rise in his fortunes Ramsey’s vanity extinguished his sense of obligation, his pride was not equal to paying his debts. Bobby may or may not have realized that his former friend’s gratitude was of the same quality as his honour, but in any case he showed no resentment. He was sufficiently accustomed to the ways of the successful to take them as they were, and to pass over those characteristics to which, after all, they partly owe their success. Indeed, had it been a question of introducing any one but Madame de Corantin to Ramsey, he would have ignored the latter’s insolence and ingratitude alike and conformed to his habitual rÔle as purveyor of amusement to all and sundry. For Bobby’s dignity was not great, and the secret of the kind of popularity he enjoyed was in no small measure attributable to his own lack of self-respect. But for the first time in his life Bobby’s pride now asserted itself. At last he was being “tried too high.”

“Excuse me, madame, if before answering you I ask you why you are interested?”

Madame de Corantin considered an instant. “I shall tell you, my friend, but not now.” She glanced round her significantly as she spoke. “The little story is rather private, and I should not care to be overheard. You understand?”

“Oh, please don’t—please,” he stammered, feeling he had been indiscreet, but flattered all the same by the promise of her confidence. “His name is Alistair Ramsey. I have known him a long time.”

“Is he an intimate friend of yours, monsieur?”

“Well, no, I can’t say intimate, but I used to know him very well.”

“What is his position in London?”

Bobby thought a moment. “Do you mean his position now during the War or generally?”

“Both.”

“Well, shortly before the War he had been made a partner in an important firm in the Stock Exchange. He is supposed to come of a good family, and he went about a great deal. One of those sort of men ladies like—asked out a lot, that sort of thing—good-looking, too, don’t you think?”

The question was inspired by jealousy. The more Bobby thought about Ramsey the less he liked the prospect of introducing him to Madame de Corantin.

“I quite believe he is considered so,” she replied evasively. “But you were saying—”

“Well, it’s generally believed, I dare say it isn’t true, that he was made a member of that firm through being—ahem—a great friend of the wife of the chief partner. I don’t like suggesting that sort of thing, you know, but as you asked me—”

“Oh please go on,” Madame de Corantin said, holding her chin with both hands and leaning her elbows on the table. Her eyes were looking closely into Bobby’s, and he moved uneasily under their sustained gaze.

“Just after the War began—Oh, I forgot to mention something: he is a very great friend of Mrs. Norman Lockyard, the wife of the Cabinet Minister. I seem to keep on bringing in ladies, but somehow when one talks about Alistair Ramsey one can’t help it. Through Mrs. Lockyard, he got introduced to Sir Archibald Fellowes. It wasn’t very difficult, you know; Ramsey gives little parties in his flat in Mount Street—all sorts of people go. It’s extraordinary when one thinks of it—I mean to me who know what his life has been—but he’s considered amusing. I know one evening, a week or two ago, Lord Coleton was there, and—”

Madame de Corantin was listening attentively. “Did you say Lord Coleton?” she asked. “Those English names are so puzzling.”

“Yes,” said Bobby. “Why, do you know him?”

“Oh, slightly,” she answered, “but continue your story, it is so interesting.”

“Where was I? Oh, yes, let me see. Have you ever heard of LÉonie Blas?”

Madame de Corantin smiled at the sudden question. “Oh yes, the chanteuse. What has she to do with it?”

“Well, you see, Ramsey and LÉonie were more or less collÉs, and Ramsey introduced old Fellowes to her. Soon afterwards Ramsey became Fellowes’ private secretary.”

“Ah!” The exclamation came through Madame de Corantin’s closed lips almost like a sigh. “And Sir Archibald is a very important personage, I believe?”

“Important! They say he runs the whole War Office.”

Madame de Corantin laughed. The sound of it rippled away joyously. It was infectious, and Bobby laughed too.

“Anything more I can tell you?”

“Oh no, thanks. Now let us talk about other things, but I must know this wonderful Mr. Ramsey. You will introduce him to me, won’t you? Ah!” The reason for the exclamation was evident.

Their table faced the entrance, and Madame de Corantin’s seat enabled her to see every one who entered or left the restaurant. Alistair Ramsey was standing in the doorway, waiting for the head waiter to show him to his table. His eyes were fixed upon Madame de Corantin’s face. The look of astonishment Bobby had noticed before had given place to one of mingled surprise and curiosity. He had exchanged his uniform for evening dress, and wore a flower in his buttonhole. A waiter went towards him, and he began threading his way through the diners. Another instant, and he stood beside Madame de Corantin’s chair.

Under the compulsion of a will felt but not expressed in words, Bobby rose as he approached, and introduced him.

“I hope you will allow me to join you after dinner?” Alistair Ramsey asked as he bowed.

Madame de Corantin smiled affirmatively, and Bobby ground his teeth as Ramsey proceeded to his table.

---

Madame de Corantin did not care for the chatter and casual encounters of the public rooms of an hotel. It was her practice to retire to her own salon after dinner, unless she were going to a theatre. After the first two or three days of their acquaintance she had invited Bobby to join her there, and he had been immensely flattered. He looked forward to that moment every evening, for it seemed to him to admit a certain intimacy which he greatly valued. But now his heart was beating with apprehension. Would she ask Ramsey to her private apartment?

“May I tell the waiter to bring coffee upstairs?” he asked in a low tone.

“By all means,” she said, “but you might order for three and leave word for Mr. Ramsey to join us when he has finished his dinner.” Her tone was careless, and Bobby’s heart turned to stone.

“Perhaps I had better tell him myself?” He tried to conceal his chagrin, but his voice betrayed him.

Madame de Corantin turned to him gaily. “Oh, I expect he’ll find his way without that,” she answered, “and I want to tell you something before he comes.”

“Come and sit here by me,” she said, as they entered her apartment. “You have been very discreet; I have noticed it from the beginning. Had it not been for that I could not have allowed you to be with me so much. Discretion is a great gift, Mr. Froelich.”

“Oh, please don’t call me ‘Mr. Froelich’; couldn’t you manage to say ‘Bobby’ at least once before Ramsey appears?”

Madame de Corantin broke into that catching laugh of hers. “Very well then, ‘Bobby,’ my friend, I am going to trust to your discretion by telling you my little story. I was once travelling on a ship going to America—at that time I was very unhappy. I was quite alone. My husband had recently died. I have been very lucky in my life—you are an example.”

“I?” exclaimed Bobby.

“Yes, you. Did you not arrive on the scene just when I wanted you, at the Gare du Nord?”

“Oh yes, I see what you mean. Of course, of course; thanks awfully for saying that.”

“Well, just as you arrived then, so some one else arrived once long ago, and I was grateful to him, as indeed I am grateful to you.”

Bobby was trying to find something to say, but Madame de Corantin continued—

“I was glad of protection going to America. It is not pleasant for a woman to have to travel alone. I daresay some people would have misunderstood the position. My companion on that voyage was well known. He was a Prince of a distinguished German family. He was nothing to me. I need hardly tell you that.”

The suggestion in her last remark was not very flattering to Bobby, but he was too much interested to notice it.

“On that same ship was travelling your friend, Mr. Ramsey. He knew the Prince slightly, I do not know how.”

“Oh, he always manages to get to know people somehow or other. That’s one of Ramsey’s special gifts,” Bobby remarked with as near an approach to bitterness as he was capable of expressing.

“He used to come up and speak to the Prince when we were reclining on our deck chairs, but my companion did not encourage him. I think, Bobby, he was like you—a little jealous. Anyhow, towards the end of the voyage I received a note. It was handed to me by a stewardess. It was from Mr. Ramsey, and I handed it to the Prince. I do not exactly know what happened, for I did not see Mr. Ramsey again, but from what the Prince told me, he must have said something very disagreeable to Mr. Ramsey. That is all the story.”

She had hardly said the words when there was a knock on the door, and Alistair Ramsey entered the room and stood before her, bowing. With a few easy words the new-comer settled himself in a chair, and at the invitation of Madame de Corantin lit a cigarette. Nothing in his attitude or in hers suggested that they had ever seen each other before, still less that an embarrassing episode figured in the background of their earlier acquaintance.

Madame de Corantin led the conversation by a few casual remarks, which were immediately taken up by Ramsey, and in a few minutes they were talking together as people do who, though they have not met before, have known of each other for years. Ramsey brought in the names of common acquaintances, of places they both knew, with an easy assumption of mutual understanding that what he had to say about them would interest her.

As a rule his attitude in the presence of ladies was that of a man accustomed to the recognition of his ascendency.

Perhaps this was one of the reasons of the quite peculiar hostility with which most men regarded him, but with Madame de Corantin his manner was deferential, and it was clear that he was doing everything in his power to ingratiate himself.

Bobby took little part in the conversation, and Ramsey’s demeanour towards him was not such as to encourage him to do so. Ramsey had the assurance which comes from social success, and he took no trouble to conceal the indifference, if not contempt, with which he regarded the other man. His manner was alternately insolent and condescending; he kept his eyes fixed upon Madame de Corantin, ignoring Bobby’s presence completely.

Glib of speech, Ramsey had a certain gift of humour, which displayed itself in flippant witticisms generally at the expense of others. He undoubtedly possessed the art of provoking laughter, but there was always malice behind his frivolity. In appearance he was elegant without being engaging, and one felt the spitefulness of the dark eyes beneath the abundant hair, and the hardness of his mouth showed itself even when he laughed. An onlooker could not have failed to contrast Madame de Corantin’s two visitors, and an Englishman certainly would have done so to the disadvantage of Ramsey.

In spite of his German name Bobby was typically English in appearance, and no one would have supposed that of the two he was the more cosmopolitan. As he sat now listening to the conversation his good-natured face wore an expression of perplexity and discomfort. Bobby was suffering the pangs of jealousy, and at every fresh sally of the other he was watching Madame de Corantin’s face to see its effect. No wonder, he thought, that Ramsey had few friends, and yet he could not help envying the caustic readiness of his tongue and the skill with which he had so quickly turned the situation to his advantage.

For an hour they talked until, in some subtle and indefinable manner, Bobby felt that Madame de Corantin desired to be left alone. He had frequently had this experience with her; she seemed to be able to indicate a desire without expressing it, and he rose now from his seat and wished her good-night. Ramsey did not move, and Bobby’s heart sank within him at the prospect of leaving his rival in possession, but, as he took Madame de Corantin’s hand, she held it an instant in hers, turning at the same time towards Ramsey.

“I am so sorry,” she said to him, “that our agreeable little party must break up, but I have many letters to write this evening, and shall look forward to seeing you both to-morrow.”

Bobby was elated as he went out of the room, closely followed by Ramsey; indeed, reaction prompted geniality.

“I think I’ll go round to Maxim’s for an hour; it’s quite early. Will you join me? There are sure to be people you know there.”

They were standing in the hall of the hotel.

“Thanks, it’s very good of you, but I too have letters to write,” Ramsey replied, and turning coldly on his heel he left Bobby to go out alone.

Bobby strolled down the Place de la Concorde, but before he reached Maxim’s his heart misgave him; he was reviewing the events of the evening and, though he could not justify it, his mind was full of suspicion. It was queer her wanting to see Ramsey again after the way he had behaved. What could have been her object? Was he really so irresistible? She had certainly shown quite plainly that she wanted to see him, and yet she had shown equally plainly that she didn’t want him to remain with her alone. He wondered how long Ramsey would be staying in Paris, and what effect his presence would have on his intercourse with Madame de Corantin. Would he be able to see as much of her or would she drop him in favour of Ramsey. The thought tortured him, but it wormed its way more and more into his brain. Bobby had very little confidence in his powers of pleasing; it was a common experience of his to be thrown over in favour of men much less attractive to women than Ramsey. It was true that hitherto he had not much cared, and when he had been given the “go-by” he had always reflected that there were as good fish in the sea, and so on; but that wasn’t the case now.

Thinking deeply, he had reached the entrance of Maxim’s without knowing it, but looking in, he turned away in disgust; he had no desire to face the crowd inside, he wanted to think things over. He walked on up the Boulevard de la Madeleine, and with every step his jealousy increased. The suspicion rankled; he felt certain that Ramsey would somehow or other manage to see her again before he could—why, he might even contrive to do so that very evening. He knew that Ramsey would dare anything where women were concerned. Very likely while he was walking up the Boulevard, Ramsey was sitting in her room.

Finally, he could bear it no longer. Turning, he walked swiftly back to the hotel; it was a little past eleven, too early to go to bed, too late in a darkened and subdued Paris to do anything else. He wondered where Ramsey was, and, going to the porter, asked him casually if he had seen him.

No, he had not seen Monsieur Ramsey since he had gone upstairs half an hour ago; he supposed he had gone to bed.

Had Ramsey gone to bed? The more Bobby turned it over in his mind the stronger his suspicions grew, and then came a moment of desperation—he must know, he could not bear the suspense. His own room was two floors above that on which was Madame de Corantin’s apartment. Declining the lift, he walked slowly upstairs, and as though he were doing so by mistake, directed his steps softly past the door of her salon. No one was in the corridor, and noiselessly he approached the door. Was that a man’s voice? Yes, there was not a doubt of it. He listened again, he looked up and down the passage, no one was in sight. He placed his head close to the woodwork of the door; with a sense of ignominy he realized that if there had been a keyhole he would have placed his ear to that—anything to know—anything. Yes, he recognized Ramsey’s voice distinctly; he was there. On tiptoe he retraced his steps. Arrived at the entrance hall he flung himself into a chair, a prey to utter wretchedness.

---

Somehow the night passed.

Towards morning, perhaps at six or seven, he fell into a heavy sleep, completely worn out by his mental sufferings. He awoke late, and, glancing at his watch, saw to his horror that it was already eleven o’clock. Cursing himself as he realized that this was the hour at which Madame de Corantin generally went out, he rang the bell. How he longed for his trusted valet, enlisted two months back. Now he had only a hotel servant to send on messages. When the man arrived he dispatched him instantly to find out whether Madame de Corantin had sent him any message, and began to dress hurriedly. The servant did not return, and in his impatience Bobby cursed him and rang again. Another servant appeared and was hurried off on the same errand. In this way twenty minutes passed; Bobby was dressed and flew downstairs. Unable to disguise his anxiety, he asked the porter if he had seen Madame de Corantin.

“Madame de Corantin left an hour ago, Monsieur.”

“Left? What do you mean?”

“Yes, Monsieur, she left—left with her luggage and her maid—everything.”

Controlling himself as best he could Bobby turned away in a state of complete dejection. He sought an out-of-the-way corner and sat down, trying to calm himself so that he could think.

“Gone away! Gone away!” He repeated the words mechanically. What did it all mean?

Somebody was approaching him; he looked up, a servant handed him a note. He tore it open breathlessly.

DEAR BOBBY, MY FRIEND,

News reached me early this morning which necessitated my immediate departure. I know, alas, that you will feel sad at not seeing me again. Believe me, so am I, but it is unavoidable. I asked for you before I left, but they told me at the hotel that you had not yet left your room. I scribble this line at the station. Forgive me, my dear friend, for all the trouble I have given you, and believe that I am very grateful. We shall meet again some day, and meanwhile keep a kindly remembrance of your friend

FRANCINE DE CORANTIN.

She gave no address.

Bobby read the letter again and again; he could hardly believe his eyes. The worst thing that could possibly happen had befallen him. Where could she have gone, and why couldn’t she tell him, and oh, how could he have been such a fool as to have gone on sleeping like a stupid log at the moment that she was going away? He would never be able to forgive himself for that. Was there any connection between her departure and her meeting with Alistair Ramsey? Bobby tried to concentrate his mind on the problem, but it baffled him.

Completely bewildered, he cross-questioned the hall porter, but he could add nothing to what he had already said. Madame de Corantin had gone and she had left no address and he had not the slightest idea where, nor did he know to what station she had gone. A car had come for her, apparently a private one, she had not ordered it at the hotel. What trains were there leaving? Oh, there were numbers; there was one to Rouen and Havre and also to Dieppe about that time, to Bordeaux and San Sebastian, to all kinds of places. Bobby realized the utter hopelessness of attempting to trace her. Wretchedly the hours passed; in the middle of the afternoon he decided that whatever happened he would not stay another night in Paris. The thought of it sickened him. Paris, the hotel, and everything else had become hateful. No, he would spend that night at Dieppe, and go to London the next day, that was all he could think of.

Back in London, Bobby’s condition of misery, so far from improving, became worse. His life, aimless enough ever since the War, seemed now more aimless than ever. Every man he knew had something to do; he alone was objectless and workless. More profoundly than ever he realized all that Madame de Corantin had meant to him. Her disappearance had made his life a blank. Had there been some glimmer of hope, however slight, of penetrating the mystery, had there been the faintest clue to her present whereabouts, he would have thrown himself heart and soul into the endeavour to trace her, but he had absolutely nothing to go upon.

Weary and desolate, he haunted restaurants and hotels, in the vague hope that chance might some day yield him a glimpse of her, as a gambler clings to a faint prospect of redeeming his fortunes through some wonderful and unexpected revulsion of luck. But the days passed without the slightest encouragement, and his misery turned almost to despair.

At last, at his wits’ end to know what to do with himself, he besought a boon companion of his night life to come to his rescue. To this one war had brought opportunity. His name was Bertram Trent. He had lived all sorts of lives, had been married and divorced, and had made his appearance more than once in the Bankruptcy Court, but he had knocked about the world and seen service.

Offering himself at the beginning of the War, he had taken part in the Great Retreat and had been wounded. On his recovery he had been given the command of a battalion, and at Bobby’s earnest entreaty he promised him a commission, provided he could get it confirmed at the War Office. This saved Bobby. He lost no time in putting in his application, and, awaiting the Gazette, he occupied himself in ordering his kit and in getting himself into some sort of physical condition to undertake duties for which his previous life had ill-prepared him. Though considerably past the age for military service, he had not contemplated the possibility of being refused a commission.

Dropping in one day at the Carlton for lunch, he met Harold Clancey, who, to his surprise, was wearing the Staff cap. Clancey told him that he had been working for some time at the War Office, and had been given the rank of captain.

“Let’s have lunch together,” suggested Bobby.

Bobby had met Clancey at all sorts of places, but they had never been on intimate terms; in fact, the two men had little more than a nodding acquaintance. Bobby had run into him the last time at Homburg, and Clancey had given him to understand that he had some sort of vague diplomatic appointment. He had drifted across Bobby’s life afterwards in a shadowy way, seeming to have nothing special to do, but to know a great many people and to take life as a sort of a joke. He talked lightly and cynically about serious things, and used foreign expressions with great ease and fluency. It was characteristic of him that since the War he made frequent use of German idioms, and when conversation turned upon passing events he professed a complete contempt for English ideas, habits, and methods, and a great admiration for those of the Germans.

“What’s your job at the War Office?” asked Bobby.

“As I really don’t know myself it is rather difficult to explain it to you,” answered the other, “but it seems chiefly to consist in sitting tight and preventing other people from annexing it.”

“I’m up for a commission,” remarked Bobby. “Can you do anything to help me about it?”

“Dear me, what a silly thing to do! What regiment?”

Bobby explained.

“I shall be charmed to do what I can,” replied Clancey, “but as they simply loathe me at Headquarters I don’t think it will do you much good.”

They fell to discussing other things. Bobby, obsessed by his recent experiences, could not resist telling his companion something about them. But he did not mention Ramsey. The implied admission that he had been cut out was too humiliating. Clancey’s interest was evidently aroused. He wanted to hear all about Madame de Corantin.

“She seems to have fascinated you,” he remarked.

“She’d fascinate anybody.”

“And you really don’t know what has become of her? How extraordinary!”

“Isn’t it?”

“You mean to say you cannot trace her in any way?”

“I have no more idea than the man in the moon where she is.”

Clancey reflected.

“Did you say she was French?” he asked.

“Her husband was; she herself is Russian.”

Clancey looked at him.

“Oh, Russian, is she? Corantin, Corantin. Let me see. I seem to remember the name somehow.”

“No, do you?” Bobby’s voice betrayed his interest.

“I must think about it,” said Clancey. He pulled out his watch. “I think it is time I got back to the War Office. I’ll see about the commission, Froelich, and let you know.”

“This is where I live,” said Bobby, handing him a card. “Do look me up. I do want that commission, and as quickly as possible.”

They went out of the restaurant and separated in the street, Bobby taking his way towards his rooms in Down Street. He was wondering whether perhaps luck had come his way, and whether Clancey would reveal to him some means of finding Madame de Corantin. If he did, damn the commission!

That evening, as on all others, Bobby was bored to death; the habits of twenty years were not to be thrown off in a day. It was impossible for him to go to bed before the small hours, and not knowing how else to kill time he dropped in at the Savoy restaurant. It was late when he got there, and he strolled through the foyer, stopping at various tables to talk to acquaintances. He had no intention of taking supper, but just wanted to see who was there.

There she was, at the table on the right. He could see her through the glass screen, and Ramsey was with her. He stood still a moment, devouring her with his eyes, and then she looked up and recognized him. Was she really beckoning to him? The reaction was so great that he dared not believe the evidence of his senses. No, there was no doubt; she was actually beckoning. As he walked towards the table he felt as though his legs would give way under him; and now he was by her; he held her hand.

“Ah, Bobby, my friend, I am so pleased to see you.”

The familiar voice, the familiar glance! It was all too good to be true. He was blind to the presence of Ramsey. He was alone with her; Ramsey did not exist; the restaurant did not exist. The hum of voices, the clatter of plates, the movements of the waiters, were distant sounds: all he knew was that he was standing there by her.

“Sit down, Bobby.”

Mechanically he seated himself, and gradually some of his equanimity returned. He could speak, but he said nothing of what he felt. Instinctively he knew that it was wiser to make no reference to anything that had passed.

Ramsey’s face was set and cold, but all his capacity for insolent indifference did not enable him to conceal his annoyance. His eyes flashed with anger.

“I think we ought to be going; it is getting rather late. We don’t want to be swept out with the dust, do we?” He addressed Madame de Corantin.

“Oh, I am in no hurry, Mr. Ramsey,” she replied. “It gives me great pleasure to see Mr. Froelich again. I was obliged to leave Paris so suddenly, and never had an opportunity of showing him how much I appreciated his kindness to me.”

Ramsey said nothing, but he glared at Bobby vindictively.

Presently Madame de Corantin rose, but as she left the room she made a point of keeping Bobby beside her, and in her inimitable way she asked Ramsey to fetch her cloak. For a moment Bobby had the exquisite joy of being alone with her.

“Only tell me one thing,” he almost gasped. “Tell me that I may see you, and when.”

She thought a moment. “Not tomorrow, I fear. I should like to so much, but I have not a moment. Come the next day to lunch. I am staying at Claridge’s.”

Ramsey appeared with the cloak, and she was gone.

What the next hours meant to Bobby can be imagined. They were passing somehow. The night, the morning, the afternoon wore away. He bought some magnificent roses and returned to his flat to dress, determined that he would take them himself to Claridge’s, hoping that by some chance he might catch a glimpse of her.

He was just starting out when, to his surprise, Clancey was announced.

“There is something I wanted to tell you, Froelich.”

Bobby waited impatiently.

“That lady you were talking about, Madame de Corantin. I think I remember something.”

Bobby was nervously anxious to get away. What Clancey had to tell him mattered little now.

“Oh, thanks very much, Clancey. The fact is, I’ve seen her.”

Clancey’s nonchalant manner changed instantaneously.

“Really!” he exclaimed.

“At the Savoy last night. She is here in London. She is staying at Claridge’s. In fact, to tell you the truth, I am taking these flowers there now. I am to lunch with her to-morrow. It has been a great surprise. I never dreamt of such a thing,” Bobby stammered on excitedly.

Clancey became calm again.

“Oh, that’s most interesting,” he said. “You will lunch with her to-morrow! I say, Froelich, you might introduce me. I could turn up after lunch, you know.”

Bobby’s face got serious.

“Well, I tell you, Clancey, old chap, as a rule I am quite ready to introduce my friends to any lady I know, but in this particular case it is not quite the same. You see, the fact is—the last time I introduced a friend of mine the result was—well, it was not exactly what I bargained for.”

“What do you mean?” asked Clancey.

“What I mean is that I introduced Alistair Ramsey to her in Paris, with the result that I have never seen her since until yesterday.”

Clancey did not immediately reply, but a curious expression overspread his face. “Alistair Ramsey,” he murmured, and then again, “Alistair Ramsey, dear me!”

Bobby looked at him wonderingly. Clancey laughed lightly.

“That reminds me,” he said. “I inquired about your commission at the War Office. You know, I suppose, that Alistair Ramsey is private secretary to Sir Archibald Fellowes. Old Fellowes decides upon all commissions, and your charming friend, Mr. Ramsey, informed him you were not a fit person to wear his Majesty’s uniform.”

Bobby stared.

“The dirty dog!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’m damned! That at the last, after everything!”

“Yes, just that,” remarked Clancey. “So you introduced him to Madame de Corantin?”

“Not because I wanted to,” replied Bobby.

“And she has been with him ever since?”

“Oh, I don’t know that.”

“But she was with him last night at the Savoy?”

“Yes. Damn him! I must be off now. Clancey, really, I’m awfully obliged to you.”

“Well, may I come to Claridge’s tomorrow? I promise I won’t cut you out—I only want to make her acquaintance. She must be such a charming woman.”

“All right. Look in after lunch,” Bobby answered, and, seizing the huge parcel which contained his flowers, he led the way out of the room and thence out of the flat to the cab which was waiting for him.

Had Bobby looked out of the window of that cab he would have been surprised. Clancey was running down the street towards Piccadilly as fast as his legs could carry him.

---

Another shock was in store for poor Bobby. Jumping out of his taxi, he presented himself to the hall-porter, armed with his huge paper parcel from the florist.

“For Madame de Corantin,” he said.

The porter looked at him; he knew him well and accepted the offering hesitatingly.

“For Madame de Corantin, you said, sir?”

“Yes,” said Bobby.

“Madame de Corantin left early this afternoon, Mr. Froelich.”

For a moment Bobby was speechless.

“Left?” he gasped. “Are you sure?”

“I’m perfectly certain, sir.”

“But surely she is coming back again, isn’t she? Why, I’m lunching with her to-morrow.”

The porter looked at him in surprise.

“Take a seat for a moment, sir, and I’ll go and inquire, though to the best of my belief she took all her luggage with her.”

In a moment the man came back.

“Yes, sir, she and her maid and all her luggage left about two o’clock. There were two cars; one was brought by a gentleman.”

Bobby pulled himself together.

“Ah! Mr. Alistair Ramsey, I suppose?” He tried to put indifference into his voice.

“Yes, sir, I think it was Mr. Alistair Ramsey.”

Bobby walked out of the hotel. “Oh, damn him, damn him, damn him!” he muttered as he threw himself into a cab.

“Go to Down Street.”

Arrived at his rooms, Bobby cast his poor flowers into a corner, and, flinging himself on to a sofa, buried his face in his hands. What was the meaning of it, and how could she be so cruel as to play the same trick on him again? What was the object of telling him to come and see her? It would have been by far kinder to ignore him when she saw him at the Savoy. And yet even now Bobby was not resentful. He was bewildered, but far more was he humiliated at the thought of Ramsey’s triumph. There must surely be some explanation. She had greeted him so kindly; she had shown such evident pleasure at seeing him again. Why should she have acted that part? There was no object in it. Something must have happened, something quite outside the range of ordinary events. As he had done a hundred times, Bobby returned on the past and tried to piece together consecutively all the incidents since his first meeting with Madame de Corantin. Gradually an impression formed itself in his mind that what at first had seemed an attractive mystery was something deeper than he had imagined. Gradually there spread over him a vague sensation of discomfort, of apprehension even. Still, when he thought about her it seemed impossible to connect anything sinister with a personality so charming, with a disposition so amiable. No, it was beyond him; it was useless his attempting to puzzle out the problem. Only time could explain it. As they had met at the Savoy, so sooner or later they would meet again. He knew it was useless to try and forget her; that was impossible, but, in the meantime, what?

Suddenly his reflections were interrupted. Some one was ringing the bell at the entrance. Bobby went to the door. Two men were standing outside—strangers to him.

“Are you Mr. Froelich?” one of them asked.

“Yes,” answered Bobby. “Why? What do you want?”

“I should like to speak to you a moment.”

“What about?” Bobby eyed them suspiciously.

“I am from Scotland Yard, Mr. Froelich. We’d better go inside to talk.”

Bobby, quite bewildered, led them into his sitting-room, and shut the door.

“My name is Inspector Groombridge,” said the spokesman of the two. “I have been instructed to place you under arrest.”

“Me! Under arrest? What on earth have I done? There must be some mistake.”

Bobby was horrified.

“Those are my instructions, Mr. Froelich, and I am afraid I must ask you to come with me. My colleague, Sub-inspector Dane, is to remain here in possession, and I am afraid I must ask you to hand him your keys.”

“My keys?” Bobby felt in his pockets. “What sort of keys do you mean?” He pulled a gold chain out of his pocket to which were attached his latchkey and a few others. He held them in his hand, and ticked them off one by one mechanically. “This is the key of the cupboard where I keep my cigars and liqueurs; this is the key of my dispatch-box. I don’t think I’ve got anything else locked up.”

“Have you no safe, no desk or other receptacle where you keep your papers, Mr. Froelich—documents of any kind?”

“Papers—documents?” ejaculated Bobby. “No, I haven’t got any documents or papers. What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m afraid it will be the duty of Sub-inspector Dane to search your apartment, Mr. Froelich, and I want to save you from having anything broken open if it can be avoided.”

“There is nothing to break open. I don’t lock anything up except cigars and things of that kind, and as to my dispatch-box, there’s not much there either. I hardly know what there is—I haven’t looked inside it for ever so long. There may be a few private letters.”

“What sort of letters?” asked the inspector.

To Bobby this sounded menacing.

“Oh, I don’t know; perhaps there may be one or two—well, what shall I call them?—love letters, I suppose. Anyhow, here are the keys.” He handed them over to the other man as he spoke.

“Call a cab.” The inspector spoke to his subordinate.

“I say,” asked Bobby apprehensively, “am I going to be locked up?”

The inspector hesitated slightly. Bobby’s innocence seemed to strike him. He was not the sort of person he was used to arresting.

“I am afraid it’s more than likely, Mr. Froelich.”

“Can’t I change my clothes?” queried Bobby. “You see, I’ve got on evening dress, and I suppose I shan’t have a chance of getting out of it.”

The inspector reflected a moment.

“Oh yes, Mr. Froelich. I don’t see why you should not change, but I’m afraid I must ask you to let me accompany you.”

“Well, I’m—D’you think I’m going to try and escape?”

“Oh, I don’t say that, Mr. Froelich, but sometimes things happen on these occasions, and it’s my duty to be on the safe side. I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”

“Come on in, then.” Bobby led the way into his dressing-room, and in a few minutes he was rolling off with his strange companion to some destination unknown.

After the most uncomfortable night Bobby had ever spent in his life he was escorted next morning by Sub-inspector Dane to Scotland Yard. He was ushered into a waiting-room, and there he sat with the inspector, waiting until he should be summoned before the Assistant Commissioner. Had he been able to see what was going on in the adjoining room, he would have been exceedingly surprised.

The Assistant Commissioner, one of those public servants whose quiet, unobtrusive manner covers a strong character and a great efficiency, was sitting at his table talking to Harold Clancey. They were in earnest consultation.

“Then I understand, Captain Clancey,” said the Assistant Commissioner, “that this lady has got clear off?”

Clancey smiled serenely.

“Oh, rather! Address: HÔtel des Indes, The Hague—quite a comfortable place and quite an important German espionage centre.”

“I gather that our man was too late.”

“By some hours, I should say,” Clancey replied. “You see, we only got the report in from France quite late. I sent your man to watch her while I went to see Froelich. I was sure he was all right, but I wanted to satisfy myself. By the time I reached our place I found the chief in the deuce of a stew. Your man had got back, and reported that she’d gone. They’d kicked up the devil’s delight at Headquarters, and the chief was out for blood. He was determined to arrest somebody, and I suggested Ramsey, but he got purple in the face and told me he’d instructed your people to bag Froelich. I thought this quite idiotic, but it relieved the chief’s feelings, and it was too late to do anything sensible. We knew the ship she took; of course, she was much too clever to sail under the English flag. Naturally we wirelessed, but they won’t dare touch her. After that last row it’s hands off these Dutchmen.”

“And the view of your department, Captain Clancey, is that it’s useless for us to detain Mr. Froelich?”

“Absolutely useless. I can swear to it. As I told you, I don’t know him well, but I know all about him, and I am satisfied of his complete innocence, and that he is entirely unaware of Madame de Corantin’s objects and activities.”

“Then what do you propose that we should do, Captain Clancey?”

“I propose nothing at all, Mr. Crane.”

“What, after her getting those passports?”

Clancey twisted his moustache.

“That’s a matter which concerns spheres altogether over my head, Mr. Crane.”

“But Mr. Ramsey says that it’s entirely owing to Mr. Froelich’s introduction that he provided the lady with passports, that he’d known her through him, and having been a friend of Mr. Froelich for many years, he had implicitly trusted him. He was here only a few minutes before you came, and he told me that there was no doubt at all but that he had been the victim of a conspiracy between Froelich and this Madame de Corantin. He admitted that he ought to have been on his guard, considering that Mr. Froelich’s name was German, and of course it was natural that he would have German sympathies.”

“Um! And what do you think, Mr. Crane?”

The Assistant Commissioner was silent for a moment.

“You see, I don’t know Mr. Froelich,” he said.

“But you do know Mr. Ramsey,” replied Clancey.

“Not well.”

“What about his chief? You know him well enough. Why not ask him?”

The Assistant Commissioner’s answer was to throw a note across the table to his questioner. It ran as follows—

WAR OFFICE.

DEAR MR. CRANE,—

I desire you to take the most rigorous measures without fear or favour regarding this matter of the passports accorded to Madame de Corantin. There has been a disgraceful dereliction of duty, and I intend to make an example of the offender, whoever he may be.

Yours very truly,

ARCHIBALD FELLOWES.

Clancey whistled.

“That looks rather awkward for Master Alistair.”

There was a knock on the door. It was Inspector Groombridge.

“Excuse me, sir, my man has just brought this. It was delivered by a stranger to the hall-porter of the building where Mr. Froelich occupies a flat.” He handed a letter to the Assistant Commissioner, who read it slowly and without comment passed it to Clancey. Clancey, read it through, smiled, and passed it back.

“I think that settles it,” he remarked, “and with your kind permission I will now depart.”

Nodding farewell to the Assistant Commissioner, Clancey withdrew by the private exit opposite to the one which led into the room where Bobby was miserably awaiting his fate.

“Show Mr. Froelich in, Inspector Groombridge, and, by the way, I hope you have treated him with courtesy.”

The inspector cleared his throat.

“Oh, I think so, sir. Of course, it’s rather difficult in these cases to make a gentleman comfortable, but I gave him a shake-down in my own private room for the night and sent a man for his toilet things and so on in the morning.”

“Very well, Inspector; show him in at once.”

Bobby came into the room; his expression was more bewildered than apprehensive. The Assistant Commissioner held out his hand, which Bobby took with a look of surprise.

“Do sit down, Mr. Froelich. I am so sorry to have troubled you. You will, I am sure, understand that in times like these one has to be very careful, and your acquaintance with Madame de Corantin—”

“Madame de Corantin!” Bobby, exclaimed. “What in the world—”

“One moment, Mr. Froelich. I’ll try and explain it to you. Madame de Corantin is known to us. She is a very clever emissary of the German Government, and she has succeeded in baffling us entirely up till now because by a chain of coincidences there has been no one who could identify her on the various occasions that she has been in England. Thanks to her influential connections, she has succeeded in obtaining information of considerable value, and has also been enabled to elude both the French authorities and ourselves. We have reason to believe that she has secured travelling facilities and passports through her relations with high Government officials, both French and English, whom she knew before the War. You will understand, therefore, that your acquaintance with her was at first sight a suspicious circumstance. I am glad to be able to tell you, however, that on inquiry we find that you are entirely innocent of any complicity with her plans, and this result of our investigations is confirmed by a letter which she apparently addressed to you.”

Bobby’s face had been growing longer and longer as the Assistant Commissioner proceeded. When Mr. Crane mentioned the letter Bobby could not restrain an exclamation.

“A letter?” he asked excitedly. “What letter?”

“This,” said the Assistant Commissioner, handing him the note that Clancey and he had previously seen.

Bobby took it eagerly and read—

DEAR BOBBY, MY FRIEND,—

Once more I fear I am causing you unhappiness. I cannot explain everything, but I can at least tell you this. When I prevailed upon you to introduce Mr. Ramsey to me, so much against your will, I had an object. This object was very far from being a desire for Mr. Ramsey’s acquaintance as you supposed, for I am still, and always shall be, devoted to that former friend of whom I told you. His name, I may now tell you, is Prince von Waldheim und Schlangenfurst. When I came to London I had hoped to have remained long enough to see you again, but I had no alternative but to go at a moment’s notice. To have remained would have been dangerous.

This letter will be delivered to you by a person whom I can trust. By the time you get it I shall be in Holland.

Some day when peace is restored I hope we may meet, and it will give me great pleasure to see you and introduce you to Prince von Waldheim, who esteems loyalty as I do.

As to Mr. Ramsey I do not know which I despise most—his vanity or his stupidity.

With every good wish,

Believe me,

Always sincerely and gratefully yours,

FRANCINE DE CORANTIN.

As Bobby finished the letter he looked up and met the eyes of the Assistant Commissioner who rose from his chair.

“I need not detain you, Mr. Froelich; it only remains for me to apologize for any trouble I may have given you. I must ask you to be kind enough to lend me this letter, which, however, I shall send on to you in a few days.”

Bobby returned to his flat, relieved but chastened. It was not long before he received the commission he coveted. The same Gazette contained two announcements: one that a commission as lieutenant had been granted to Mr. J. Froelich, the other that his Majesty had no further use for the services of Mr. Alistair Ramsey.

---