reached for my cane. It was then that the truly significant thing
occurred--the clue, as it were. My hand, as I took my cane, brushed
against my liqueur glass upon the table; it fell, rolled to the edge,
and disappeared. The waiter dived for it, while I waited to pay for
the breakage. His foolish German face came up over the edge of the
table, crumpled in a smile.

"'It is all right,' he said. 'The glass is not broken.'"

"It was then, my friend, that I began to perceive how things were
with me. Dimly at first, but, as the day proceeded, with growing
clearness. I became aware that I stood in the shadow of some strange
fate. Small ills, chances of trifling misfortune, stood aloof, and
let me pass unharmed; I was destined to be the prey of a mightier
evil. When I light my cigarette, do my matches blow out in the wind?
No, they burn with the constancy of an altar candle. If I leave my
gloves in a cab, as happened yesterday, do I lose them? No, the
cabman comes roaring down the street at my back to catch me and
restore them. A thousand such providences make up my day. This
morning, just before I encountered you, the chief and most signal of
them all occurred."

"Go on," said Cobb.

"It was, in fact, impressive," said Savinien. "There is, not far from
here, a shop where I am accustomed to buy my cigarettes. A small
place, you know, a hole in the wall, with a young ugly woman behind
the counter. One enters, one murmurs 'Maryland,' one receives one's
yellow packet, one pays, one salutes, one departs. There is nothing
in the place to invite one to linger; never in my life have I said
more than those two words--'Maryland' on entering and 'Madame' on
leaving--to the good creature of the shop. I do not know her name,
nor she mine. Ordinarily she is reading when I enter; she puts down
her book to serve me as one might put down a knife and fork; it must
often happen that she interrupts herself in the middle of a word. She
gets as far as:

"'Jean ki----' then I enter. 'Maryland,' I murmur, receive my packet,
and pay. 'Madame!' I raise my hat and depart. Not till then does she
know the continuation:--'ssed Marie,' or 'cked the Vicomte,'
whichever it may be. Not a luxurious reader, that one, you see.

"Well, this morning I enter as usual. There she sits, book in hand.
'Maryland' I murmur. For the first time in my experience of her she
does not at once lay the book, face downwards, on the counter, and
turn to the shelf behind h