his hat and overcoat; watched him step into his automobile
and leave the restaurant. He turned back with a clouded face and threw
himself into an easy-chair.

Ten minutes passed uneventfully. People were passing backwards and
forwards all the time; but Bernadine, through his half-closed eyes, did
little save watch the couple in whom he was so deeply interested. At
last the man rose and, with a word of farewell to his companion, came
out from the lounge and made his way up the foyer, turning toward the
hotel. He walked with quick, nervous strides, glancing now and then
restlessly about him. In his eyes, to those who understood, there was
the furtive gleam of the hunted man. It was the passing of one who was
afraid.

The woman, left to herself, began to look around her with some
curiosity. Bernadine, to whom a new idea had occurred, moved his chair
nearer to hers, and was rewarded by a glance which certainly betrayed
some interest. A swift and unerring judge in such matters, he came to
the instant conclusion that she was not unapproachable. He acted upon
impulse. Rising to his feet, he approached her and bowed easily, but
respectfully.

"Madame," he said, "it is impossible that I am mistaken. I have had the
pleasure, have I not, of meeting you in St. Petersburg?"

Her first reception of his coming was reassuring enough. At his mention
of St. Petersburg, however, she frowned.

"I do not think so," she answered in French. "You are mistaken. I do not
know St. Petersburg."

"Then it was in Paris," Bernadine continued, with conviction. "Madame is
Parisian, without a doubt."

She shook her head, smiling.

"I do not think that I remember meeting you, monsieur," she replied
doubtfully; "but perhaps----"

She looked up, and her eyes drooped before his. He was certainly a very
personable-looking man, and she had spoken to no one for so many months.

"Believe me, madame, I could not possibly be mistaken," Bernadine
assured her smoothly. "You are staying here for long?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Heaven knows!" she declared. "My husband he has, I think, what you call
the wander fever. For myself, I am tired of it. In Rome we settle down;
we stay five days, all seems pleasant, and suddenly my husband's whim
carries us away without an hour's notice. The same thing at Monte Carlo;
the same at Paris. Who can tell what will happen here? To tell you the
truth, monsieur," she added, a little archly, "I think that if he we