t picture, the eyes looked forth with a curious, proud
directness; but beneath the directness was a glint of humor, a flash of
daring absent in the other face; the mouth smiled, seeming to anticipate
life's secrets, the ungloved hand held the gun with a touch peculiarly
caressing, peculiarly firm.

The traveller looked, looked again, and then, with a deliberation odd in
so slight a circumstance, folded the paper, rose, and stepped to the
window of the carriage.

The night mist beat in, still raw and cold, but somewhere behind the
darkness was the stirring, the vague presage of the day to come. He
leaned out, fingers close about the paper, lips and nostrils breathing
in the suggestive, vaporous air. For a moment he stood, steadying
himself to the motion of the train, palpitating to his secret thoughts;
then, with a little theatricality all for his own edification, he opened
his fingers and, freeing the paper, watched it swirl away, hang for a
second like a moth against the lighted window, and vanish into the
night.

CHAPTER II

'Journeys end in lovers' meeting.' The phrase conjures a picture. The
court-yard of some inn, glowing ripe in the tints of the setting
sun--open doors--an ancient coach disgorging its passengers! This--or,
perhaps, some quay alive with sound and movement--cries of command in
varying tongues--crowded gangways--rigging massed against the sky--all
the paraphernalia of romance and travel. But the real journey--the
journey of adventure itself--is frequently another matter: often gray,
often loverless, often demanding from the secret soul of the adventurer
spirit and inspiration, lest the blood turn cold in sick dismay, and the
brain cloud under its weight of nostalgia.

Paris in the dawn of a wet day is a sorry sight; the Gare du Nord in the
hours of early morning is a place of infinite gloom. As the north
express thundered into its recesses, waking strange and hollow echoes,
the long sweep of the platform brought a shudder to more than one tired
mind. A string of sleepy porters--gray silhouettes against a gray
background--was the only sign of life. Colors there were none, lovers
there were none, Parisian joy of living there was not one vestige.

Paris! The murmur crept through the train, stirring the weariest to
mechanical action. Paris! Heads were thrust through the windows, wraps
and hand-bags passed out to the shadowy, mysterious porters who received
them in a silence born of the god