ove with her. Perhaps I am.... I don't know, Renoux. But this I do
know; she is clean and sweet and honest from the crown of her head to
the sole of her foot. In her heart there has never dwelt treachery.
Talk to her to-night. You're like the best of your compatriots, clear
minded, logical, intelligent, and full of that legitimate imagination
without which intellect is a machine. You know the world; you know
men; you don't know women and you know you don't. Therefore, you are
equipped to learn the truth--to divine it--from Nihla Quellen. Will
you come over to my place now?"

"Yes," said Renoux pleasantly.

* * * * *

The orchestra was playing as they passed through the hotel; supper
rooms, corridors, cafe and lobby were crowded with post-theatre
throngs in search of food and drink and dance music; and although few
theatres were open in July, Long Acre blazed under its myriad lights
and the sidewalks were packed with the audiences filtering out of the
various summer shows and into all-night cabarets.

They looked across at the distant war bulletins displayed on Times
Square, around which the usual gesticulating crowd had gathered, but
kept on across Long Acre, and west toward Sixth Avenue.

Midway in the block, Renoux touched his comrade silently on the arm,
and halted.

"A few minutes, mon ami, if you don't mind--time for you to smoke a
cigarette while waiting."

They had stopped before a brownstone house which had been converted
into a basement dwelling, and which was now recessed between two
modern shops constructed as far as the building line.

All the shades and curtains in the house were drawn and the place
appeared to be quite dark, but a ring at the bell brought a big,
powerfully built porter, who admitted them to a brightly lighted
reception room. Then the porter replaced the chains on the door of
bronze.

"Just a little while, if you will be amiable enough to have patience,"
said Renoux.

He went away toward the rear of the house and Barres seated himself.
And in a few moments the burly porter reappeared with a tray
containing a box of cigarettes and a tall glass of Moselle.

"Monsieur Renoux will not be long," he said, bringing a sheaf of
French illustrated periodicals to the little table at Barres' elbow;
and he retired with a bow and resumed his chair in the corridor by the
bronze door.

Through closed doors, somewhere from the rear of the silent house
came the