He hardly seemed to know what he was saying. "Come along then," said Mendel. "I think I can find where Thompson lives." It was not far. They walked along the deserted boulevard under the new white, florid buildings, and turned into an impasse. "That's it," said Mendel. "Impasse. I remember that. A tall, thin house with a big yellow door. Here it is." They knocked until the yellow door swung mysteriously open and then ran upstairs to the top floor. Thompson came blinking into the passage. "Where's Oliver? Where's Logan's girl?" Mendel put up his fist to hit him in the eye. "I put her into a taxi and sent her home. The Americans took us on to another place. They were a jolly lot. A terrific place they took us to. There were negresses dancing and a South Seas girl who said Gauguin brought her back. . . . Oliver's all right. I put her in a taxi and sent her back." "You're a liar!" shouted Logan. "She's in there." He rushed in, while Mendel put his arms round Thompson and laid him neatly on the floor. In a moment Logan was out again. "You're a shocking bad painter," he said to Thompson, "but she isn't there." They left the house and walked slowly back to the hotel. Logan clung to Mendel's arm, saying:-- "It's my fault. She said if ever I knocked her about she'd clear out. Do you mind walking about with me? I couldn't go to bed. I couldn't sleep." All night they walked about; going back to the hotel every half hour to see if she was there, talking of anything and everything, even politics, to keep Logan's mind from the fixed horrible idea that had taken possession of it. They saw the sun come out, and the workers hurrying along the streets, and the waiters in the cafés push up the heavy iron shutters that had only been pulled down an hour or two before, and the market women with their baskets, and the tramcars glide and jolt along, the shops open and the girls go chattering to their work through the long, leisurely Parisian day. They returned at eight and had breakfast. At half-past nine Oliver appeared, smiling and serene. "We did have fun last night! You missed something, I tell you." "Where have you been?" cried Logan. "I've been looking for you all night." "What a fool you are! I can look after myself." "Where have you been?" She faced him with a bold stare and said:-- "I got home about half-past two, and I took another room, partly because I didn't want to disturb you, and partly--you know why." "What number was your room?" "Forty-four." From where they sat Mendel could see the keyboard in the concierge's lodge. There were only forty rooms in the hotel. "Have you had breakfast?" asked Logan, forcing himself to believe her. "Hours ago. In bed," she replied. "I paid for it and the bed." "Why did you do that?" he snapped. She caught Mendel's eyes fixed on her, eager to see her trapped, and she smiled insolently as she replied:--