u, but that's impossible," she said uncertainly. "I have
friends, too; but they can't help me. Nobody can."

"Well," I admitted sadly, "I know the rudiments of manners. I can
recognize a conge, but consider me a persistent boor. Come, Miss
Falconer, why mayn't I call? Because we are strangers? If that's it, you
can assure yourself at the embassy that I am perfectly respectable; and
you see I don't eat with my knife or tuck my napkin under my chin or
spill my soup."

Again that warm flush.

"Mr. Bayne!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Did I need an introduction to
speak to you on the ship, to ask unreasonable favors of you, to make
people think you a spy? If you are going to imagine such absurd things,
I shall have to--"

"To consent? I hoped you might see it that way."

"Of course," she pondered aloud, "I may find good news waiting. If I do,
it will change everything. I could see you once, at least, and let you
know. I really owe you that, I think, when you've been so kind to me."

"Yes," I agreed bitterly, with a pang of conscience, "I've been very
kind--particularly to-night!"

"Well, perhaps to-night you were just a little difficult." She was
smiling, but I didn't mind; I rather liked her mockery now. "Still, even
when you thought the worst of me, Mr. Bayne, you kept my secret. And--do
you really wish to come to see me?"

"I most emphatically do."

She drew a card from her beaded bag, rummaged vainly for a pencil, ended
by accepting mine, and scribbled a brief address.

"Then," she commanded, handing me the bit of pasteboard, "come to this
number at noon to-morrow and ask for me. And now, since I'm not to go to
prison, Mr. Bayne, I believe I am hungry. This is war bread, I suppose;
but it tastes delicious. And isn't the saltless butter nice?"

"And here are the chicken and the salad arriving!" I exclaimed
hopefully. "And there never was a French cook yet, however unspeakable
otherwise, who failed at those."

What had come to pass I could not have told; but we were eating
celestial viands, and my black butterflies having fled away, a swarm of
their gorgeous-tinted kindred were fluttering radiantly over Miss Esme
Falconer's plate and mine.

CHAPTER XI

IN THE RUE ST.-DOMINIQUE

Arriving in Paris at the highly inconvenient hour of 8 A.M., our
_rapide_ deposited its breakfastless and grumpy passengers on the
platform of the Gare de Lyon, washed its hands of us with the final
formality of collecting ou