is like a rooster without tail
feathers"--to a polite and busy attendant. Then a personage with a
very straight beard and a very curly mustache, ushered me into the main
dining-room.

"Monsieur would wish seats for how many?" he asked, in French.

"For myself only," I answered, also in French. His next remark was in
English. I was beginning to notice that when I addressed a Parisian in
his native language, he usually answered in mine. This may have been
because of a desire to please me, or in self-defence; I am inclined to
think the latter.

"Ah, for one only. This way, Monsieur."

I was given a seat at one end of a long table, and in a corner. There
were plenty of small tables yet unoccupied, but my guide was apparently
reserving these for couples or quartettes; at any rate he did not offer
one to me. I took the seat indicated.

"I shall wish to remain here for some time?" I said. "Probably the
entire--" I hesitated; considering the hour I scarcely knew whether to
say "evening" or "morning." At last I said "night" as a compromise.

The bearded person seemed doubtful.

"There will be a great demand later," he said. "To oblige Monsieur is of
course our desire, but.... Ah, merci, Monsieur, I will see that Monsieur
is not disturbed."

The reason for his change of heart was the universal one in restaurants.
He put the reason in his pocket and summoned a waiter to take my order.

I gave the order, a modest one, which dropped me a mile or two in the
waiter's estimation. However, after a glance at my fellow-diners at
nearby tables, I achieved a partial uplift by ordering a bottle of
extremely expensive wine. I had had the idea that, being in France, the
home of champagne, that beverage would be cheap or, at least, moderately
priced. But in L'Abbaye the idea seemed to be erroneous.

The wine was brought immediately; the supper was somewhat delayed. I
did not care. I had not come there to eat--or to drink, either, for that
matter. I had come--I scarcely knew why I had come. That Frances Morley
would be singing in a place like this I did not believe. This was the
sort of "abbey" that A. Carleton Heathcroft would be most likely to
visit, that was true, but that he had seen her here was most improbable.
The coincidence of the "abbey" name would not have brought me there, of
itself. Herbert Bayliss had given me to understand, although he had not
said it, that she was not singing in a church and he had found the idea
of