ying the best cigarette I had ever
smoked. "You comprehend French--no?"

"Not well enough to enjoy it," I said.

"I am sorry--I believe you would like this book which I am reading,"
and he pulled a somewhat tattered volume from his pocket. "I have read
it, oh, ver' many times, as well as all the others--though this, of
course, is the masterpiece."

He held it so that I could see the title. It was "Monsieur Lecoq."

"I have read it in English," I said.

"And did you not like it--yes? I am ver' fond of stories of detection.
That is why I was so absorbed in that affair of Mees--Mees--ah, I have
forgotten! Your names are so difficult for me."

"Miss Holladay," I said.

"Ah, yes; and has that mystery ever arrived at a solution?"

"No," I said. "Unfortunately, we haven't any Monsieur Lecoqs on our
detective force."

"Ah, no," he smiled. "And the young lady--in her I conceived a great
interest, even though I did not see her--how is she?"

"The shock was a little too much for her," I said. "She's gone out to
her country-place to rest. She'll soon be all right again, I hope."

He had taken a third cigarette, and was lighting it carelessly, with
his face half-turned away from me. I noticed how flushed his neck was.

"Oh, undoubtedly," he agreed, after a moment; "at least, I should be
most sad to think otherwise. But it is late; I perceive that you are
weary; I thank you for your kindness."

"Not at all," I protested. "I hope you'll come in whenever you feel
lonely."

"A thousand thanks! I shall avail myself of your invitation. My
apartment is just across the hall," he added, as I opened the door. "I
trust to see you there."

"You shall," I said heartily, and bade him good-night.

In the week that followed, I saw a good deal of Martigny. I would meet
him on the stairs or in the hall; he came again to see me, and I
returned his visit two nights later, upon which occasion he produced
two bottles of Chateau Yquem of a delicacy beyond all praise. And I
grew more and more to like him--he told me many stories of Paris,
which, it seemed, had always been his home, with a wit to which his
slight accent and formal utterance gave new point; he displayed a
kindly interest in my plans which was very pleasing; he was always
tactful, courteous, good-humored. He was plainly a boulevardier, a man
of the world, with an outlook upon life a little startling in its
materiality, but interesting in its freshness, and often amusing in