“It _was,”_ said Ina; “I feel it. But it is not one _now,_ because I have _you_ to assist me with your experience and ability. You will find him for me, somehow or other. I know you will.” Let a woman have ever so little guile, she must have tact, if she is a true woman. Now, tact, if its etymology is to be trusted, implies a fine sense and power of touch; so, in virtue of her sex, she pats a horse before she rides him, and a man before she drives him. There, ladies, there is an indictment in two counts; traverse either of them if you can. Joseph Ashmead, thus delicately but effectually manipulated, swelled with gratified vanity and said, “You are quite right; you can't do this sort of thing yourself; you want an agent.” “Of course I do.” “Well, you have got one. Now let me see--fifty to one he is not at Homburg at all. If he is, he most likely stays at Frankfort. He is a swell, is he not?” “Swell!” said the Anglo-Dane, puzzled. “Not that I am aware of.” She was strictly on her guard against vituperation of her beloved scamp. “Pooh, pooh!” said Ashmead; “of course he is, and not the sort to lodge in Homburg.” “Then behold my incompetence!” said Ina. “But _the_ place to look for him is the gambling-saloon. Been there?” “Oh, no.” “Then you must.” “What! Me! Alone?” “No; with your agent.” “Oh, my friend; I said you would find him.” “What a woman! She will have it he is in Homburg. And suppose we do find him, and you should not be welcome?” “I shall not be unwelcome. _I shall be a change.”_ “Shall I tell you how to draw him to Homburg, wherever he is?” said Ashmead, very demurely. “Yes, tell me that.” “And do _me_ a good turn into the bargain.” “Is it possible? Can I be so fortunate?” “Yes; and _as you say,_ it _is_ a slice of luck to be able to kill two birds with one stone. Why, consider--the way to recover a man is not to run after him, but to make him run to you. It is like catching moths; you don't run out into the garden after them; you light the candle and open the window, and _they_ do the rest--as he will.” “Yes, yes; but what am I to do for _you?”_ asked Ina, getting a little uneasy and suspicious. “What! didn't I tell you?” said Ashmead, with cool effrontery. “Why, only to sing for me in this little opera, that is all.” And he put his hands in his pockets, and awaited thunder-claps. “Oh, that is all, is it?” said Ina, panting a little, and turning two great, reproachful eyes on him. “That is all,” said he, stoutly. “Why, what attracted him at first? Wasn't it your singing, the admiration of the public, the bouquets and bravas? What caught the moth once will catch it again 'moping' won't. And surely you will not refuse to draw him, merely because you can pull me out of a fix into the bargain. Look here, I have undertaken to find a singer by to-morrow night; and what chance is there of my getting even a third-rate one? Why, the very hour I have spent so agreeably, talking to you, has diminished my chance.”