"Let us finish the mail, Chapman. We have ten minutes left. Ah, a letter from Mrs. Kesselbach! Why didn't you tell me of it, Chapman? Didn't you recognize the handwriting?" He made no attempt to conceal the emotion which he felt in touching and contemplating that paper which his wife had held in her fingers and to which she had added a look of her eyes, an atom of her scent, a suggestion of her secret thoughts. He inhaled its perfume and, unsealing it, read the letter slowly in an undertone, in fragments that reached Chapman's ears: "Feeling a little tired. . . . Shall keep my room to-day. . . . I feel so bored. . . . When can I come to you? I am longing for your wire. . . ." "You telegraphed this morning, Chapman? Then Mrs. Kesselbach will be here to-morrow, Wednesday." He seemed quite gay, as though the weight of his business had been suddenly relieved and he freed from all anxiety. He rubbed his hands and heaved a deep breath, like a strong man certain of success, like a lucky man who possessed happiness and who was big enough to defend himself. "There's some one ringing, Chapman, some one ringing at the hall door. Go and see who it is." But Edwards entered and said: "Two gentlemen asking for you, sir. They are the ones. . . ." "I know. Are they there, in the lobby?" "Yes, sir." "Close the hall-door and don't open it again except to M. Gourel, the detective-sergeant. You go and bring the gentlemen in, Chapman, and tell them that I would like to speak to the Colonel first, to the Colonel alone." Edwards and Chapman left the room, shutting the door after them. Rudolf Kesselbach went to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass. Outside, just below his eyes, the carriages and motor-cars rolled along in parallel furrows, marked by the double line of refuges. A bright spring sun made the brass-work and the varnish gleam again. The trees were putting forth their first green shoots; and the buds of the tall chestnuts were beginning to unfold their new-born leaves. "What on earth is Chapman doing?" muttered Kesselbach. "The time he wastes in palavering! . . ." He took a cigarette from the table, lit it and drew a few puffs. A faint exclamation escaped him. Close before him stood a man whom he did not know. He started back: "Who are you?" The man--he was a well-dressed individual, rather smart-looking, with dark hair, a dark moustache and hard eyes--the man gave a grin: "Who am I? Why, the Colonel!" "No, no. . . . The one I call the Colonel, the one who writes to me under that . . . adopted . . . signature . . . is not you!" "Yes, yes . . . the other was only . . . But, my dear sir, all this, you know, is not of the smallest importance. The essential thing is that I . . . am myself. And that, I assure you, I _am_!" "But your name, sir? . . ." "The Colonel . . . until further orders." Mr. Kesselbach was seized with a growing fear. Who was this man? What did he want with him? He called out: