ould not. It seems she doesn't, but he does. Heavens, would you accept
such a conclusion without the fullest experiment? For me, I am
determined to test it."

"Still you're in love with her."

"Agreed, agreed, agreed. A man must have a spur to knowledge."

We parted at the Place de la Concorde, and I strolled on alone to my
hotel. Vohrenlorf was waiting for me, a little anxious, infinitely
sleepy. I dismissed him at once, and sat down to read my letters. I had
the feeling that I would think about all these matters to-morrow, but I
was also pervaded by a satisfaction. My mind was being fed. The air here
nourished, the air of Artenberg starved. I complimented Paris on a
virtue not her own; the house in the Rue Washington was the source of my
satisfaction.

There was a letter from Varvilliers; he wrote from Hungary, where he was
on a visit. Here is something of what he said:

"There is a charming lady here, and we fall in love, all
according to mode and fashion. (The buttons are on the foils,
pray understand.) It is the simplest thing in the world; the
whole process might, as I believe, be digested into twelve
elementary motions or thereabouts. The information is given and
received by code; it is like playing whist. 'How much have you?'
her eyes ask. 'A passion,' I answer by the code. 'I have a
_penchant_,' comes from her side of the table. 'I am leading up
to it,' say I. 'I am returning the lead.' Good! But then comes
hers (or mine), 'I have no more.' Alas! Well then, I lead, or she
leads, another suit. It's a good game; and our stakes are not
high. You, sire, would like signals harder to read, I know your
taste. You're right there. And don't you make the stakes higher?
I have plunged into indiscretion; if I did not, you would think
that Bederhof had forged my handwriting. Unless I am stopped on
the frontier I shall be in Forstadt in three weeks."

I dropped the letter with a laugh, wondering whether the charming lady
played the game as he did and a stake as light. Or did she suffer? Well,
anybody can suffer. The talent is almost universal. There was, it
seemed, reason to suppose that Struboff suffered. I acquiesced, but with
a sense of discontent. Pain should not be vulgarized. Varvilliers'
immunity gave him a new distinction in my eyes.

CHAPTER XXIV.

WHAT A QUESTION!

Struboff's inevitable discovery of my real name was a