I found my pocketbook and pressed my card into his hand. Would he give Mademoiselle my card? Would he tell her that I must see her, if only for a minute? Just give her the card and tell her that. He shook his head, smiling but firm. I could have punched him for the smile, but instead I took other measures. I reached into my pocket, found some gold pieces--I have no idea how many or of what denomination--and squeezed them in the hand with the card. He still smiled and shook his head, but his firmness was shaken. “I will give the card,” he said, “but I warn Monsieur it is quite useless. She will not see him.” The waiter with whom I had seen Herbert Bayliss in altercation was hurrying by me. I caught his arm. “Pardon, Monsieur,” he protested, “but I must go. The gentleman yonder desires his bill.” “Don't give it to him,” I whispered, trying hard to think of the French words. “Don't give it to him yet. Keep him where he is for a time.” I backed the demand with another gold piece, the last in my pocket. The waiter seemed surprised. “Not give the bill?” he repeated. “No, not yet.” I did my best to look wicked and knowing--“He and I wish to meet the same young lady and I prefer to be first.” That was sufficient--in Paris. The waiter bowed low. “Rest in peace, Monsieur,” he said. “The gentleman shall wait.” I waited also, for what seemed a long time. Then the bearded one reappeared. He looked surprised but pleased. “Bon, Monsieur,” he whispered, patting my arm. “She will see you. You are to wait at the private door. I will conduct you there. It is most unusual. Monsieur is a most fortunate gentleman.” At the door, at the foot of a narrow staircase--decidedly lacking in the white and gold of the other, the public one--I waited, for another age. The staircase was lighted by one sickly gas jet and the street outside was dark and dirty. I waited on the narrow sidewalk, listening to the roar of nocturnal Montmartre around the corner, to the beating of my own heart, and for her footstep on the stairs. At last I heard it. The door opened and she came out. She wore a cloak over her street costume and her hat was one that she had bought in London with my money. She wore a veil and I could not see her face. I seized her hands with both of mine. “Frances!” I cried, chokingly. “Oh, Frances!” She withdrew her hands. When she spoke her tone was quiet but very firm. “Why did you come here?” she asked. “Why did I come? Why--” “Yes. Why did you come? Was it to find me? Did you know I was here?” “I did not know. I had heard--” “Did Doctor Bayliss tell you?” I hesitated. So she HAD seen Bayliss and spoken with him. “No,” I answered, after a moment, “he did not tell me, exactly. But I had heard that someone who resembled you was singing here in Paris.” “And you followed me. In spite of my letter begging you, for my sake, not to try to find me. Did you get that letter?” “Yes, I got it.” “Then why did you do it? Oh, WHY did you?”