of his muscles, he tiptoed his way back. He
remembered now that the three rooms adjoined. Next to his was Mr.
Ducksmith's, and then came Mrs. Ducksmith's. It was Mr. Ducksmith whom
he had seen. Suddenly his dark face became luminous with laughter, his
eyes glowed, he threw his hat in the air and danced with glee about the
room. Having thus worked off the first intoxication of his idea, he
flung his few articles of attire and toilet necessaries into his bag,
strapped it, and darted, in his dragon-fly way, into the corridor and
tapped softly at Mrs. Ducksmith's door. She opened it. He put his finger
to his lips.

"Madame," he whispered, bringing to bear on her all the mocking
magnetism of his eyes, "if you value your happiness you will do exactly
what I tell you. You will obey me implicitly. You must not ask
questions. Pack your trunks at once. In ten minutes' time the porter
will come for them."

She looked at him with a scared face. "But what am I going to do?"

"You are going to revenge yourself on your husband."

"But I don't want to," she replied, piteously.

"I do," said he. "Begin, _chere madame_. Every moment is precious."

In a state of stupefied terror the poor woman obeyed him. He saw her
start seriously on her task and then went downstairs, where he held a
violent and gesticulatory conversation with the landlord and with a man
in a green baize apron summoned from some dim lair of the hotel. After
that he lit a cigarette and smoked feverishly, walking up and down the
pavement. In ten minutes' time his luggage with that of Mrs. Ducksmith
was placed upon the cab. Mrs. Ducksmith appeared trembling and
tear-stained in the vestibule.

* * * * *

The man in the green baize apron knocked at Mr. Ducksmith's door and
entered the room.

"I have come for the baggage of monsieur," said he.

"Baggage? What baggage?" asked Mr. Ducksmith, sitting up.

"I have descended the baggage of Monsieur Pujol," said the porter in his
stumbling English, "and of madame, and put them in a cab, and I
naturally thought monsieur was going away, too."

"Going away!" He rubbed his eyes, glared at the porter, and dashed into
his wife's room. It was empty. He dashed into Aristide's room. It was
empty, too. Shrieking inarticulate anathema, he rushed downstairs, the
man in the green baize apron following at his heels.

Not a soul was in the vestibule. No cab was at the door. Mr. Ducksmith
turned upon