But I do not think the man breathes who could gage Karl’s dispassionate mood in that hour. I admit that I was utterly befogged. I went into my bedroom to change my clothing. The door was open, and I heard Karl rise, approach the window, obviously with no more serious intent than a glance into the street, and begin to whistle. That might be the stoicism of despair. But the whistling changed to humming, and from humming he verted to singing: For she was the Belle of New York, The subject of all the town talk. She made the whole Bowery Fragrant and flowery When she went out for a walk.... This was too much. I stuck my enraged head round the corner of the door. He stopped his lilting. “By Jove!” he said, “you must be a lightning change artist.” “Karl!” I cried indignantly, “for goodness’ sake jump into a hansom, go to your father, and tell him to dismiss from his mind the stupid nightmare with which you have managed to imbue him.” “You have evidently missed the exact point of some of my remarks,” he retorted pleasantly. “I told you, among other things, that I wrestled with the problem of candor versus concealment some time ago.” “But you cannot be in earnest. Either you are mad or I am.” “Both, my dear fellow. Believe me, temporary insanity is largely on the increase. The average man cannot withstand the strain. I fancy you will find there is a quaint analogy between the number of maniacs per mille and the number of editions published each day by the evening newspapers. When the jaded intellect is called on, every few minutes, to watch three race meetings, six county cricket matches, and probably a test match, the war--there is always a war--the German Emperor, the yacht race, the latest scandal, the latest play--” Pshaw! I let up, as Hooper would have said, and determined to drift with the tide into the realm of queer happenings. The change in my costume rendered the hotel’s restaurant approachable. Eat to-day I must, no matter who died to-morrow. Karl agreed to keep me company while I tackled the homeliest _plat_ which a £3,000 per annum chef would condescend to cook, and thus, unwittingly, was I advanced a stage in my inquiry. We found the palatial apartment tenanted by late diners and early suppers. A waiter would have whisked us into an inconvenient corner, but Karl stayed him. “Where is Jules?” he asked. “Le voilà, m’sieur,” and the man indicated the bulky form of the head waiter in the far depths of white and gold. Karl looked steadily across the little tables with their twos that were company and their threes that were not. Had he fired at Jules with an air-gun that ponderous person could not have wheeled round more readily. Moreover, he came straight to us, his broad face set in a wide grin. “Ah, dere you are, M’sieur Karl!” he cried. “I alvays know ven you come in, is it not?”