'During the investigations the next day,' Lavendale continued, 'it was discovered that his papers were forged and that he was in reality an Austrian. He was interned at once, of course, and I believe there was a certain amount of secrecy about his movements on that night. So far as I know, though, nothing has been discovered.' She raised her eyebrows deprecatingly. 'The detective system over here,' she remarked, 'is sometimes hopeless, isn't it?' 'Yet in one respect,' Lavendale pointed out, 'they certainly were prompt on that night. I understand that Jules was interned within an hour of the discovery of the murder.' Miss de Freyne drew her manuscript towards her with a little shrug of the shoulders. 'They failed to find the formula, though,' she reminded him. Lavendale, accepting his dismissal, returned to his place, finished his lunch and made his way round to the Milan Mansions. A caretaker was established now in his office in the hall. He was a small and rather melancholy-looking man, who hastily concealed a blackened pipe as Lavendale entered. 'I understand that you have a suite to let,' the latter began, 'upon the third floor?' The man pulled out a list. 'We have several suites to let, sir,' he replied; 'nothing upon the third floor, though.' 'What about number thirty-two?' The caretaker shook his head. 'Number thirty-two is let, sir.' 'Are you sure?' Lavendale persisted. 'I called this morning and was allowed to look over it by Mr. Somers-Keyne, who had the keys.' 'It was taken by a young lady just before one o'clock, at our head office,' the man told him. 'With regard to the other suites, sir----' 'Could you tell me the young lady's name?' Lavendale interrupted. 'I haven't heard it yet,' the man answered shortly. 'With regard to the other suites----' Lavendale slipped a coin into his hand. 'Thank you,' he said, 'there is no other suite in which I am interested for the moment.' He stepped out. Almost on the threshold he met Miss de Freyne, face to face. 'Are you coming,' he asked, raising his hat, 'to take possession of your new abode?' She was entirely at her ease. She looked at him, however, a little curiously. It was as though she were trying to make an appreciative estimate of him in her mind. 'I suppose,' she observed, with a little sigh, 'that we are playing at cross-purposes. You are an American, are you not, Mr. Lavendale?' 'I am,' he answered. 'German-American?' 'No!' 'English-American?' 'No!' 'What then?' 'American.' 'Tell me exactly what that means?' she insisted. 'It means that my sympathies are concentrated upon my own country,' he answered. 'Those prefixes--German-American or English-American--are misnomers. Wherever my personal sympathies may be, my patriotism overshadows them. Now you know the truth about me. I am an American for America.' She sighed. 'Yes,' she murmured, 'I had an idea that was your point of view. I am a Frenchwoman, you see, for France.'