Count Abel appeared not to have heard these last words. He stammered out something about M. Moriaz having exaggerated the worth of the little service it had been his good fortune to render him, and then with a cold, formal, dignified air, he bowed to Antoinette and moved hurriedly away, as a man who cares little to make new acquaintances, and who longs to get back to his solitude. He was already at some distance when M. Moriaz, who had been busily recounting his adventures to his daughter, bethought him that he had kept his deliverer’s overcoat. He searched in the pockets, and there found a memorandum-book and some visiting-cards bearing the name of Count Abel Larinski. Before dinner he made the tour of all the hotels in Saint Moritz without discovering where M. Larinski lodged. He learned it in the evening from a peasant who came over from Cellarina for the overcoat. The good Mlle. Moiseney was quite taken with Count Abel; first, because he was handsome, and then because he played the piano bewitchingly. There could be no doubt that Antoinette would feel grateful to this good-looking musician who had restored to her her father. Certain of being no longer thwarted in her enthusiasm, she said to her that evening, with a smile which was meant to be excessively ironical: “Well, my dear, do you still think that Count Larinski has a stoop in his shoulders, and that his head is badly poised?” “It is a matter of small import, but I do not gainsay it.” “Ah, if you had only heard him play one of Schumann’s romances!” “A talent for music is a noble one. Nevertheless, the man’s chief merit, in my eyes, is that he has a taste for saving life.” “Oh, I was sure from the first, perfectly sure, that this man had a large heart and a noble soul. I read physiognomies very correctly, and I never need to see people twice to know how far they can be relied on.” After a pause she added, “I wonder if I dare tell you, my dear, of an idea that has occurred to me?” “Tell me, by all means. Your ideas sometimes amuse me.” “Might it not turn out that the author of a certain note, and sender of a certain thing, was M. le Comte Abel Larinski?” “Why he rather than any other?” queried Antoinette. “I believe you do him wrong: he appears to be a gentleman, and gentlemen do not write anonymous letters.” “Oh! that was a very innocent one, and you may be sure that he wrote it in perfect good faith.” “You believe, then, mademoiselle, that in good faith a man about to put a halter about his neck would renounce his project because he had encountered Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz on a public highway?” “Why not?” cried Mlle. Moiseney, looking at her with eyes wide open with admiration. “Besides, you know the Poles are a hot-headed people, whose hearts are open to all noble enthusiasms. One could pardon in Count Larinski what could not be overlooked in a Parisian.”