w weeks, war burst like a
clap of thunder over Europe, leaving the whole world stunned and
reeling. The dossier of Nihla Quellen, the dancing girl, was tossed
into secret archives, together with the dossier of one Ferez Bey, an
Eurasian, now far beyond French jurisdiction, and already very
industrious in the United States about God knows what, in company with
one Max Freund.

As for Monsieur the Count d'Eblis, he remained a senator, an owner of
many third-rate decorations, and of the _Mot d'Ordre_.

And he remained on excellent terms with everybody at the Swedish,
Greek, and Bulgarian legations, and the Turkish Embassy, too. And
continued in cipher communication with Max Freund and Ferez Bey in
America.

Otherwise, he was still president of the Numismatic Society of Spain,
and he continued to add to his wonderful collection of coins, and to
keep up his voluminous numismatic correspondence.

He was growing stouter, too, which increased his spinal waddle when he
walked; and he became very prosperous financially, through fortunate
"operations," as he explained, with one Bolo Pasha.

He had only one regret to interfere with his sleep and his digestion;
he was sorry he had not fired his pistol into the youthful face of
Nihla Quellen. He should have avenged himself, taken his chances, and
above everything else he should have destroyed her beauty. His
timidity and caution still caused him deep and bitter chagrin.

For nearly a year he heard absolutely nothing concerning her. Then one
day a letter arrived from Ferez Bey through Max Freund, both being in
New York. And when, using his key to the cipher, he extracted the
message it contained, he had learned, among other things, that Nihla
Quellen was in New York, employed as a teacher in a school for
dancing.

The gist of his reply to Ferez Bey was that Nihla Quellen had already
outlived her usefulness on earth, and that Max Freund should attend to
the matter at the first favourable opportunity.

III

SUNSET

On the edge of evening she came out of the Palace of Mirrors and
crossed the wet asphalt, which already reflected primrose lights from
a clearing western sky.

A few moments before, he had been thinking of her, never dreaming that
she was in America. But he knew her instantly, there amid the rush and
clatter of the street, recognised her even in the twilight of the
passing storm--perhaps not alone from the half-caught glimpse of her
shadowy, averted fa