he had been far too successful in that line
once before.

With the thought, his customary sober judgment returned.

"_L'Hotel du Rhin!_" he shouted savagely to his _cocher_, and with one
last glance at the back of the carriage ahead (if it were only an
automobile!--then there'd be a number on it! he thought) Paul was
turned sharply around and carried toward the main entrance to the
_Bois_.

* * * * *

Even some hours later, when he was ready to start for the Dalmatian
Embassy, his rage had not cooled greatly; it was therefore in a tone
strangely at variance with his unruffled evening dress that he
directed his chauffeur. As for Baxter, he had never seen his master in
so villainous a humour. Indeed, had it not been for an uncommonly
pretty _femme de chambre_ in the hotel, whose acquaintance he had made
the evening before, he would have been tempted to give his employer
notice.

"His langwidge was somethink dreadful!" he confided to her after Paul
had gone.

The pleasant ride through the _Faubourg St. Germain_ served to mollify
Paul somewhat; and when he walked up to the brilliantly lighted
entrance, where a resplendent flunky opened the massive doors for him,
he was more himself again. He was soon greeting his host and hostess,
whose genuine pleasure at seeing him once more was so evident that the
last vestige of Paul's ill-humour vanished before their welcoming
smiles.

Presently the Countess turned to Paul and said:

"Come! I want to present you to a young Russian friend of mine whom
you are to take in to dinner," and taking his arm she led him into an
adjoining room.

And there Paul met his vision, face to face; the lady of his quest.

CHAPTER XV

At first Paul could hardly believe his senses. He was conscious, as he
gazed into the depths of two marvellous eyes, of a tall supple figure
all in black, a crimson rose in her dark hair lending a touch of
color--that, and her red lips.

This was the face that had burned its lineaments into the tablets of
his memory--the face so sweetly known at Lake Lucerne.

The babble of the arriving guests--the strains of the
orchestra--became as the faint murmurs of a far off sea.

For Paul, one fact, and only one, existed--it was she--his Lady of the
Beauteous Countenance; no vision, but a bewitching creature of flesh
and blood whose gloved hand rested for a moment in his own.

As in a dream Paul heard the lady's name--the sa