"

"I will tell you," she answered. "Forget for a moment the Paris that you
know, and remember the Paris of the tourist."

"Painful," he answered; "but it is done."

"The _Hotel de Luxe_!"

"I know it well."

"There are a race of creatures there, small, parasitical insects, who
hang about the hall and the boulevard outside--guides they call
themselves."

"'Show you something altogether new this evening, Captain,'" he quoted.
"Yes; I know them."

"There is, or was, one," she continued, "who goes by the name of Thomas
Johnson. He is undersized; he has red cheeks, and puffy brown eyes. He
used to wear a glazed black hat, and he speaks every language without an
accent."

"I should know the beast anywhere," he declared.

"Find out if he is there still. Let him take you out. Don't lose sight
of him--and write to me."

"To-morrow night," he said, "I will renew my youth. I will search for
him on the boulevards, and see the sights which make a gay dog of the
travelling Briton."

She nodded.

"You're a good sort, Gilbert," she said simply. "Thanks!"

CHAPTER XV

ON THE SPREE

High up on the seventh floor of one of London's newest and loftiest
buildings, a young man sat writing in a somewhat barely furnished
office. He wrote deliberately, and with the air of one who thoroughly
enjoyed his occupation. The place had a bookish aspect--the table was
strewn with magazines and books of reference; piles of literature of a
varied order stood, in the absence of bookshelves, against the wall. The
young man himself, however, was the most interesting object in the room.
He was big and dark and rugged. There was strength in his square-set
shoulders, in the compression of his lips, even in the way his finger
guided the pen across the paper. He was thoroughly absorbed in his task.
Nevertheless he raised his head at a somewhat unusual sound. The lift
had swung up to his floor, he heard the metal gate thrown open. There
was a knock at the door, and Macheson walked in.

"Victor, by glory!"

Down went the pen, and Richard Holderness stood up at his desk with
outstretched hands. Macheson grasped them heartily and seated himself
on the edge of the table.

"It's good to see you, Dick," he declared, "like coming back to the
primitive forces of nature, unchanged, unchanging. The sight of you's
enough to stop a revolution."

"You're feeling like that, are you?" his friend answered, his eyes fixed
upon Macheson's face. "