her this morning, if you will," Peter Ruff
answered. "We are taking breakfast together at the cafe de Paris. It
will give me great pleasure if you will join us."

"On the contrary," Monsieur de Founcelles declared, "I must beg of you
slightly to alter your plans. I will ask you and Mademoiselle to do me
the honor of breakfasting at the Ritz with the Marquis de Sogrange and
myself, at the same hour. We shall find there more opportunity for a
short discussion."

"I am entirely at your service," Peter Ruff answered. There were signs
now of a breaking-up of the little party.

"We must all regret, dear Monsieur Ruff," Monsieur de Founcelles said,
as he made his adieux, "this temporary obstruction to the consummation
of our hopes. Let us pray that Mademoiselle will not be unreasonable."

"You are very kind," Peter Ruff murmured.

Peter Ruff drove through the gray dawn to his hotel, in the splendid
automobile of Monsieur de Founcelles, whose homeward route lay in
that direction. It was four o'clock when he accepted his key from a
sleepy-looking clerk, and turned towards the staircase. The hotel was
wrapped in semi-gloom. Sweepers and cleaners were at work. The palms had
been turned out into the courtyard. Dust sheets lay over the furniture.
One person only, save himself and the untidy-looking servants, was
astir. From a distant corner which commanded the entrance, he saw Violet
stealing away to the corridor which led to her part of the hotel. She
had sat there all through the night to see him come in--to be assured of
his safety! Peter Ruff stared after her disappearing figure as one might
have watched a ghost.

The luncheon-party was a great success. Peter Ruff was human enough to
be proud of his companion--proud of her smartness, which was indubitable
even here, surrounded as they were by Frenchwomen of the best class;
proud of her accent, of the admiration which she obviously excited
in the two Frenchmen. His earlier enjoyment of the meal was a little
clouded from the fact that he felt himself utterly outshone in the
matter of general appearance. No tailor had ever suggested to him a coat
so daring and yet so perfect as that which adorned the person of the
Marquis de Sogrange. The deep violet of his tie was a shade unknown
in Bond Street--inimitable--a true education in color. They had the
bearing, too, these Frenchmen! He watched Monsieur de Founcelles bending
over Violet, and he was suddenly conscious of a wholly ne