To the Continental I went and made inquiries of the concierge there. Mr. Bayliss was there, he was in his room, so the concierge believed. He would be pleased to ascertain. Would I give my name? I declined to give the name, saying that I did not wish to disturb Mr. Bayliss. If he was in his room I would wait until he came down. He was in his room, had not yet breakfasted, although it was nearly ten in the forenoon. I sat down in a chair from which I could command a good view of the elevators, and waited. The concierge strolled over and chatted. Was I a friend of Mr. Bayliss? Ah, a charming young gentleman, was he not. This was not his first visit to Paris, no indeed; he came frequently--though not as frequently of late--and he invariably stayed at the Continental. He had been out late the evening before, which doubtless explained his non-appearance. Ah, he was breakfasting now; had ordered his “cafe complete.” Doubtless he would be down very soon? Would I wish to send up my name now? Again I declined, to the polite astonishment of the concierge, who evidently considered me a queer sort of a friend. He was called to his desk by a guest, who wished to ask questions, of course, and I waited where I was. At a quarter to eleven Herbert Bayliss emerged from the elevator. His appearance almost shocked me. Out late the night before! He looked as if he had been out all night for many nights. He was pale and solemn. I stepped forward to greet him and the start he gave when he saw me was evidence of the state of his nerves. I had never thought of him as possessing any nerves. “Eh? Why, Knowles!” he exclaimed. “Good morning, Bayliss,” said I. We both were embarrassed, he more than I, for I had expected to see him and he had not expected to see me. I made a move to shake hands but he did not respond. His manner toward me was formal and, I thought, colder than it had been at our meeting the day of the golf tournament. “I called,” I said, “to see you, Bayliss. If you are not engaged I should like to talk with you for a few moments.” His answer was a question. “How did you know I was here?” he asked. “I saw your name in the list of recent arrivals at the Continental,” I answered. “I mean how did you know I was in Paris?” “I didn't know. I thought I caught a glimpse of you on the boat. I was almost sure it was you, but you did not appear to recognize me and I had no opportunity to speak then.” He did not speak at once, he did not even attempt denial of having seen and recognized me during the Channel crossing. He regarded me intently and, I thought, suspiciously. “Who sent you here?” he asked, suddenly. “Sent me! No one sent me. I don't understand you.” “Why did you follow me?” “Follow you?” “Yes. Why did you follow me to Paris? No one knew I was coming here, not even my own people. They think I am--Well, they don't know that I am here.”