nd," he said, "I seek always the life amusing, and I find it
there."

"I was robbed before your eyes, Baron."

The Frenchman sighed.

"I am so sorry," he said, "that I did not see it. That indeed would have
been amusing."

"You know that the young lady who sat with us is dead?"

"A most bizarre happening," the Baron assented with a little sigh. "I
cannot imagine how it occurred. The newspaper reports are not
convincing. One would like to reconstruct the story. Poor little
Flossie! She was most amusing, but just a little, a very little, too
fond of flourishing her jewellery. One will miss her, though."

"Referring for one moment to our meeting at the cafe. You told me a
story there--you and your friend Madame--of a young English lady--which
the facts seem scarcely to sustain."

The Baron sighed.

"My friend," he said, "we did the best we could at a moment's notice. I
rather fancied the story myself. As to facts--what have they to do with
it? You demanded a story, and you got it. I rather flattered myself that
under the circumstances it was not bad."

"You admit now, then, that it was not the truth!"

"The truth! My dear Sir George! Supposing that the whereabouts of your
charming young friend had been known to me, do you suppose that I should
have permitted myself to be bullied into disclosing it? Forgive me if I
speak plainly, but if you really wished for information which you
supposed that I had, your method of seeking it put you at once out of
court. A French gentleman does not permit himself to be bullied."

Duncombe was silent for several moments. There were many things which he
could have said, but where was the use?

"As a French gentleman, then," he said at last, "will you permit me to
make a personal appeal to you? Miss Phyllis Poynton is a young lady in
whom I am deeply interested. She was last seen at the Cafe Montmartre,
from which place she disappeared. I am an Englishman of your own
station. Tell me where I can find her, or what has become of her."

"My dear Sir George," the Baron said, "you might have saved yourself a
great deal of trouble if you had spoken like this to me at the first.
Frankly, then, I have not the least idea. Young English ladies come and
go every evening at the Cafe Montmartre, and such places. One remembers
only those who happen to have amused one, and not always those. Forgive
me if I speak plainly. A young lady who had visited the Cafe Montmartre
alone--well, you might