more experienced opponent simply because of his perfect condition--was
breathing hard. There was a dull patch of color in his cheek, drops of
sweat stood upon his forehead. He controlled his voice with difficulty.
Its tone was sharp and unfamiliar.

"I was sitting in the smoking room there, a few moments ago," he began,
jerking his head toward the door. "There were some men talking--decent
fellows, not dirty scandalmongers. They spoke of Louise Maurel."

Graillot nodded gravely. He knew very well what was coming.

"Well?"

"They spoke, also, of the Prince of Seyre."

"Well?"

John felt his throat suddenly dry. The words he would have spoken choked
him. He banged his fist upon the table by the side of which they were
standing.

"Look here, Graillot," he cried, almost piteously, "you know it is not
true, not likely to be true! Can't you say so?"

"Stop, my young friend!" the Frenchman interrupted. "I know nothing. It
is a habit of mine to know nothing when people make suggestions of that
sort. I make no inquiries. I accept life and people as I find them."

"But you don't believe that such a thing could be possible?"

"Why not?" Graillot asked steadily.

John could do no more than mumble a repetition of his words. The world
was falling away from him. He was dimly conscious that one of the
engravings upon the wall opposite was badly hung. For the rest,
Graillot's face, stern, yet pitying, seemed to loom like the features of
a giant, eclipsing everything else.

"I will not discuss this matter with you, my friend. I will only ask you
to remember the views of the world in which we live. Louise Maurel is an
artist, a great artist. If there has been such an affair as you suggest,
between her and any man, if it were something which appealed to her
affections, it is my opinion that she would not hesitate. You seem to
think it an outrageous thing that the prince should have been her lover.
To be perfectly frank, I do not. I should be very much more surprised at
her marriage."

John made his escape somehow. He remembered opening the door, but he had
no recollection of reaching the street. A few minutes later, however, he
found himself striding down Piccadilly toward Hyde Park Corner.

The night was warm, and there were still plenty of people about. A woman
touched his arm; her hackneyed greeting filled him with inexpressible
horror. He stared at her, barely conscious of what he was doing, filled
with an indescribabl