were born with the habit of them."

Peter smiled. They had reached the hotel courtyard, and he raised
himself stiffly.

"There's a fable about the pitcher that went once too often to the
well," he remarked. "I have had my share of luck--more than my share.
The end must come some time, you know."

"Is this superstition?" Sogrange asked.

"Superstition pure and simple," Peter confessed, taking his key from the
office. "It doesn't alter anything. I am fatalist enough to shrug my
shoulders and move on. But I tell you, Sogrange," he added, after a
moment's pause, "I wouldn't admit it to anyone else in the world, but I
am afraid of Bernadine. I have had the best of it so often. It can't
last. In all we've had twelve encounters. The next will be the
thirteenth."

Sogrange shrugged his shoulders slightly as he rang for the lift.

"I'd propose you for the Thirteen Club, only there's some uncomfortable
clause about yearly suicides which might not suit you," he remarked.

"Good night, and don't dream of Bernadine and your thirteenth
encounter."

"I only hope," Peter murmured, "that I may be in a position to dream
after it!"

CHAPTER IX

THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN

Baron de Grost glanced at the card which his butler had brought in to
him, carelessly at first, afterwards with that curious rigidity of
attention which usually denotes the setting free of a flood of memories.

"The gentleman would like to see you, sir," the man announced.

"You can show him in at once," Peter replied.

The servant withdrew. Peter, during those few minutes of waiting, stood
with his back to the room and his face to the window, looking out across
the square, in reality seeing nothing, completely immersed in this
strange flood of memories. John Dory--Sir John Dory now--a quondam
enemy, whom he had met but seldom during these later years. The figure
of this man, who had once loomed so largely in his life, had gradually
shrunk away into the background. Their avoidance of each other arose,
perhaps, from a sort of instinct which was certainly no matter of
ill-will. Still, the fact remained that they had scarcely exchanged a
word for years, and Peter turned to receive his unexpected guest with a
curiosity which he did not trouble wholly to conceal.

Sir John Dory--Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard, a person of weight
and importance--had changed a great deal during the last few years. His
hair had become grey, his walk more dignifie