“Of course, it’s not only her cleverness. I’m much fonder of her than I used to—than I was even when I married her. Anything that there was—well, the least bit too decisive about her—has worn off. She’s mellowed.” “So have you,” I told him with a laugh. “My real life seems now to begin with my marriage,” he said soberly. It could scarcely be doubted that he meant to convey to me that a certain episode in the past had lost all its importance for him. Was that the explanation of his wife’s air of triumph? No doubt a sufficient one in itself, and perhaps enough to account for her liking to share her triumph with me. I had, after all, known her in days when she was not triumphant. However that might be, Waldo’s statement took my mind back to things that had happened before his “real life” began—and incidentally to Arsenio Valdez. I decided to bring off my secret expedition, and on the next day—there being nothing in particular on foot at the Villa—I slipped away directly after _déjeuner_, and caught a train to Nice. It traveled slowly, but it got me there by two o’clock, and I made my way towards the address which Arsenio had given me. I need hardly add that this was a furtive and secret proceeding on my part. I relied on not being questioned about him, just as I had relied—and successfully—on not being questioned about Lucinda at Cragsfoot. I had a little difficulty in finding my way. The house was in a back street, reached by several turns, and not everybody I asked knew where it was. But I found it; it was a _pâtisserie_ of a humble order. Apparently the shop entrance was the only one, so I went in by that, and asked if Monsieur Valdez lodged there. A pleasant, voluble woman was serving at the counter, and she told me that such was the case. Monsieur Valdez had a room on the second floor and was at home. He had not been out that day; he had not been out for _déjeuner_ yet, late as it was. But there, Monsieur had employment which kept him up at nights; he often slept far into the day; it was indeed highly possible that I might find him still in bed. Was it? And she had spoken of “a room.” I thought it judicious to obtain one more bit of information before I mounted to the room on the second floor. “And—er—he’s sure to be alone, is he?” She shook her head at me, her bright black eyes twinkling in an affectation of rebuke. “Monsieur need not disturb himself. Monsieur Valdez is not married, and for the rest—in my house! _Mais non, Monsieur!_” “A thousand pardons, Madame,” said I, as I prepared to mount the stairs, which rose from the back of the shop. “My husband is most scrupulous about my dignity,” she cried to me in a tone of great pride, as I ascended the first steps. So that explained that; and I went upstairs.