"You are very good," was his quiet reply, "but this wine has to be drunk." And he calmly poured out a glass, while I drew back in despair. "You do not drink wine?" he queried, holding up the glass he had filled between himself and the light. "It is a pity, for it is of most rare vintage. But perhaps you smoke?" Sick and disgusted, I found a chair, and sat down in it. If the man were crazy, there was certainly method in his madness. Besides, he had not a crazy eye; there was calm calculation in it and not a little good-nature. Did he simply want to detain me, and if so, did he have a motive it would pay me to fathom before I exerted myself further to insure my release? Answering the wave he made me with his hand by reaching out for the bottle and filling myself a glass, I forced myself to speak more affably as I remarked: "If the wine must be drunk, we had better be about it, as you can not mean to detain me more than an hour, whatever reason you may have for wishing my society." He looked at me inquiringly before answering, then tossing off his glass, he remarked: "I am sorry, but in an hour a man can scarcely make the acquaintance of another man's exterior." "Then you mean----" "To know you thoroughly, if you will be so good; I may never have the opportunity again." He must be mad; nothing else but mania could account for such words and such actions; and yet, if mad, why was he allowed to enter my presence? The man who brought me here, the woman who received me at the door, had not been mad. "And I must stay here----" I began. "Till I am quite satisfied. I am afraid that will take till morning." I gave a cry of despair, and then in my utter desperation spoke up to him as I would to a man of feeling: "You don't know what you are doing; you don't know what I shall suffer by any such cruel detention. This night is not like other nights to me. This is a special night in my life, and I need it, I need it, I tell you, to spend as I will. The woman I love"--it seemed horrible to speak of her in this place, but I was wild at my helplessness, and madly hoped I might awake some answering chord in a breast which could not be void of all feeling or he would not have that benevolent look in his eye--"the woman I love," I repeated, "sails for Europe to-morrow. We have quarrelled, but she still cares for me, and if I can sail on the same steamer, we will yet make up and be happy." "At what time does this steamer start?" "At nine in the morning." "Well, you shall leave this house at eight. If you go directly to the steamer you will be in time." "But--but," I panted, "I have made no arrangements. I shall have to go to my lodgings, write letters, get money. I ought to be there at this moment. Have you no mercy on a man who never did you wrong, and only asks to quit you and forget the precious hour you have made him lose?"