curiosities, I pursued
my investigation no further. I returned to my chair, and waited for the
truffles.

After a brief interval, the voice of the poet-painter-composer-and-cook
summoned me back to the alcove.

The gas was out. The stew-pan and its accompaniments had vanished. On
the marble slab were two plates, two napkins, two rolls of bread, and
a dish, with another napkin in it, on which reposed two quaint little
black balls. Miserrimus Dexter, regarding me with a smile of benevolent
interest, put one of the balls on my plate, and took the other himself.
"Compose yourself, Mrs. Valeria," he said. "This is an epoch in your
life. Your first Truffle! Don't touch it with the knife. Use the fork
alone. And--pardon me; this is most important--eat slowly."

I followed my instructions, and assumed an enthusiasm which I honestly
confess I did not feel. I privately thought the new vegetable a great
deal too rich, and in other respects quite unworthy of the fuss that had
been made about it. Miserrimus Dexter lingered and languished over his
truffles, and sipped his wonderful Burgundy, and sang his own praises
as a cook until I was really almost mad with impatience to return to
the real object of my visit. In the reckless state of mind which this
feeling produced, I abruptly reminded my host that he was wasting our
time, by the most dangerous question that I could possibly put to him.

"Mr. Dexter," I said, "have you seen anything lately of Mrs. Beauly?"

The easy sense of enjoyment expressed in his face left it at those rash
words, and went out like a suddenly extinguished light. That furtive
distrust of me which I had already noticed instantly made itself felt
again in his manner and in his voice.

"Do you know Mrs. Beauly?" he asked.

"I only know her," I answered, "by what I have read of her in the
Trial."

He was not satisfied with that reply.

"You must have an interest of some sort in Mrs. Beauly," he said, "or
you would not have asked me about her. Is it the interest of a friend,
or the interest of an enemy?"

Rash as I might be, I was not quite reckless enough yet to meet that
plain question by an equally plain reply. I saw enough in his face to
warn me to be careful with him before it was too late.

"I can only answer you in one way," I rejoined. "I must return to a
subject which is very painful to you--the subject of the Trial."

"Go on," he said, with one of his grim outbursts of humor. "Here I am at