u must."

"I sha'n't. I shall come here night after night until you consent to
come back to Mayberry."

She stopped then. But when she spoke her tone was firmer than ever.

"Then you will force me to give it up," she said. "Before I came here I
was very close to--There were days when I had little or nothing to eat,
and, with no prospects, no hope, I--if you don't leave me, Mr. Knowles,
if you do come here night after night, as you say, you may force me to
that again. You can, of course, if you choose; I can't prevent you. But
I shall NOT go back to Mayberry. Now, will you say good-by?"

She meant it. If I persisted in my determination she would do as she
said; I was sure of it.

"I am sure my aunt would not wish you to continue to see me, against my
will," she went on. "If she cares for me at all she would not wish that.
You have done your best to please her. I--I thank you both. Good-by."

What could I do, or say?

"Good-by," I faltered.

She turned and started across the square. A flying cab shut her from my
view. And then I realized what was happening, realized it and realized,
too, what it meant. She should not go; I would not let her leave me nor
would I leave her. I sprang after her.

The square was thronged with cabs and motor cars. The Abbey and The Dead
Rat and all the rest were emptying their patrons into the street. Paris
traffic regulations are lax and uncertain. I dodged between a limousine
and a hansom and caught a glimpse of her just as she reached the
opposite sidewalk.

"Frances!" I called. "Frances!"

She turned and saw me. Then I heard my own name shouted from the
sidewalk I had just left.

"Knowles! Knowles!"

I looked over my shoulder. Herbert Bayliss was at the curb. He was
shaking a hand, it may have been a fist, in my direction.

"Knowles!" he shouted. "Stop! I want to see you."

I did not reply. Instead I ran on. I saw her face among the crowd and
upon it was a curious expression, of fear, of frantic entreaty.

"Kent! Kent!" she cried. "Oh, be careful! KENT!"

There was a roar, a shout; I have a jumbled recollection of being thrown
into the air, and rolling over and over upon the stones of the street.
And there my recollections end, for the time.

CHAPTER XVI

In Which I Take My Turn at Playing the Invalid

Not for a very long time. They begin again--those recollections--a
few minutes later, break off once more, and then return and break off
alternately, over and