“Always,” replied Karl, imperturbably. After compliments, I gave my order. The manner of Jules’ summoning was hidden from both the head waiter himself and his satellite. “Is that what the women mean when they call you ‘The Magnet’?” I inquired. He laughed, with that contagious merriment which sends ripples of content across his hearers’ faces whether they are in his company or not. But he took care that his answer reached no other ears than mine. “No,” he said, “the women mean something quite different. At any ordinary distance I can attract practically any one whom I know. They come and talk to me, without being aware that I have summoned them. It is not a very remarkable feat when you realize that we all do something like that, in any church, or theater, or other place where people are gathered together. The magnetic effect is doubled, at least, when you use opera-glasses. Why?” These red herrings drawn across the trail were useless. “What _do_ the women mean?” I persisted. “Ask ’em, my dear fellow. Perhaps they may explain. The dear creatures adore sensation. I am told that some of them will stick on a switchback railway until their purses are emptied. A woman’s nervous system is more refined than a man’s. That is why she likes swinging, or, to be accurate, being swung. It thrills her.” Karl, in this bantering mood, was a revelation. Were I not really very much distressed and concerned by the statements made by him and his father I should have been somewhat annoyed with him. As it was, I determined to meet him on his own ground. “You have evidently become quite a man about town since last I saw you,” I said. “How have I earned that questionable distinction in your eyes?” “On the _post hoc propter hoc_ principle. Your nickname, your philosophy, your light generalities about the opposite sex, are labels of the brand.” “Ah! It has not struck you that both you and the women may be mistaken?” I looked up quickly. The mocking laugh had gone. The grave, earnest face of the Karl of five years ago was before me. Nevertheless, his fencing had stirred within me the spirit of resistance. “I am prepared to vouch for the fact that one woman knew you well enough not to be mistaken,” I said. “May not her knowledge explain her attitude? Of course you are speaking of Maggie Hutchinson. Do not forget that she shut the door in my face.” “If it be not treason to the Honorable Nora Cazenove, may I say that the door might yield to a resolute attack?” For answer he leaned on the table, intertwined his fingers, and gazed at me straight in the eyes. “Never was fortress besieged more patiently,” he said. “It is only within the past few weeks, that I have received any answer, and that is why--But surely you will agree with me that the full and explicit story of my life had better be deferred until a more convenient occasion.”