look for her anywhere, but most assuredly in that
case if your anxiety was to induce her to return to her friends, you
would be a little too late. Ah! We have arrived. Now, my friend, I must
make you free of the place."

Duncombe was fuming with anger, but he had discretion enough to remain
silent.

"Do you play Bridge?" the Baron asked, as they entered the card-room.

"Occasionally," Duncombe assented.

"I will go and see if I can find any men," the Baron remarked. "I will
leave my young friend De Bergillac to entertain you. The Vicomte de
Bergillac--Sir George Duncombe."

Duncombe shook hands with a pale, weary-looking youth, whose whole
appearance was distinguished by marked symptoms of lassitude and
ill-health. They sat in easy-chairs almost opposite to one another, and
Duncombe found the other's scrutiny almost embarrassing.

"You speak French, perhaps--yes?" the young man asked at length.

"Yes! I speak French," Duncombe admitted.

"Then listen to me," the Vicomte said slowly. "I speak as one man of
honor to another. Do not play cards in this club!"

"Not play cards? Why not?" Duncombe asked, amazed.

"You can take my advice or leave it," the Vicomte answered calmly. "I
have no explanation to offer you. If you chose to repeat my remark you
would place me in an exceedingly awkward position. You see, I rely upon
you as a man of honor."

"I am only too much obliged to you for the hint," Duncombe declared.
"But this club--the Cercle Anglais----"

"The club is all right," the Vicomte admitted calmly. "Unfortunately
there is no place in Paris which would be entirely safe for you. You
have the misfortune, you see, to be in opposition to some of my friends,
who have really unlimited opportunities for making things disagreeable
for you. Now I am beginning to talk, and it is very foolish of me. Why
don't you leave Paris, Sir George?"

"Why should I?" Duncombe asked, a little sharply. "I break no laws here,
I wrong no one. I am here on my own business, and I only ask to be let
alone."

The Vicomte regarded him as one might look at a spoilt child whom it was
yet advisable to humor.

"Ah," he said, "they will not let you alone. You are so obstinate, like
all your country-people, or you would recognize it without my risking
so much by speaking. You will have to leave Paris, and very soon. It is
so easily to be managed. A dispute at cards here--you would certainly be
in the wrong, and an ugly scandal if you w