“Ye'll take the high road And I'll take the low road, And I'll be in Scotland afore ye--” I was on my feet. I have no remembrance of having risen, but I was standing, leaning across the table, looking at her. There were cries of “Sit down” in English and other cries in French. There were tugs at my coat tails. “But me and my true love Shall never meet again, By the bonny, bonny banks Of Loch--” She saw me. The song stopped. I saw her turn white, so white that the rouge on her cheeks looked like fever spots. She looked at me and I at her. Then she raised her hand to her throat, turned and almost ran from the room. I should have followed her, then and there, I think. I was on my way around the end of the table, regardless of masculine boots and feminine skirts. But a stout Englishman got in my way and detained me and the crowd was so dense that I could not push through it. It was an excited crowd, too. For a moment there had been a surprised silence, but now everyone was exclaiming and talking in his or her native language. “Oh, I say! What happened? What made her do that?” demanded the stout Englishman. Then he politely requested me to get off his foot. The bearded manager--or proprietor--was waving his hands once more and begging attention and silence. He got both, in a measure. Then he made his announcement. He begged ten thousand pardons, but Mademoiselle Guinot--That was it, Guinot, not Juno or Junotte--had been seized with a most regrettable illness. She had been unable to continue her performance. It was not serious, but she could sing no more that evening. To-morrow evening--ah, yes. Most certainly. But to-night--no. Monsieur Hairee Opkins, the most famous Engleesh comedy artiste would now entertain the patrons of L'Abbaye. He begged, he entreated attention for Monsieur Opkins. I did not wait for “Monsieur Hairee.” I forced my way to the door. As I passed out I cast a glance in the direction of young Bayliss. He was on his feet, loudly shouting for a waiter and his bill. I had so much start, at all events. Through the waiters and uniformed attendants I elbowed. Another man with a beard--he looked enough like the other to be his brother, and perhaps he was--got in my way at last. A million or more pardons, but Monsieur could not go in that direction. The exit was there, pointing. As patiently and carefully as I could, considering my agitation, I explained that I did not wish to find the exit. I was a friend, a--yes, a--er--relative of the young lady who had just sung and who had been taken ill. I wanted to go to her. Another million pardons, but that was impossible. I did not understand, Mademoiselle was--well, she did not see gentlemen. She was--with the most expressive of shrugs--peculiar. She desired no friends. It was--ah--quite impossible.