“I’m not asking you to stand the damage, Sakers,” John Cumberland interrupted. “It wouldn’t be fair on top of the inconvenience of losing your right-hand man.” “Leave that part out,” said Robert Sakers. “Let’s get down to dates.” And as a result of the conference which followed, some ten days later Jim Sakers found himself, with Barry, bound for Europe. His profound and ceaseless amazement, expressed at great length, was an antidote to poor Barry’s melancholy--as it was designed to be. New environment and the magic of sea breezes aided the cure; and after an idle week in London, during which Barry’s restlessness seemed to have abated in a measure, they crossed to Paris. The faithful Jim cabled an enthusiastic report home; and perhaps Barry, by this time, had begun to realize that the journey was intended to be a “cure” and to reconcile his overwrought mind to the idea of resignation. But what he did not realize, what neither of them realized, was that they were helpless in the “moving row” of which old Omar spoke, and that they were being danced impotent toward that inevitable end designed by “the Master of the Show.” Paris proved rather a setback. It provoked memories which brought about in Barry a relapse into melancholy. Jim worked like a Trojan to arouse him from his mournful apathy. “Regard, oh, regard the glitter of the boulevard,” he invited, as they sat outside a popular café in the sunshine. “Unknown to the old folks at home, in their sleepy village adjacent to the delta of the Hudson----” “The Hudson has no delta,” Barry murmured. “Let that pass. But still unknown to them, whether they have a delta or not, here we sit sipping perfectly good wine at a price for which we could not obtain a cup of coffee in our little home town. Therefore, let us rejoice! And, lo! here come soldiers--complete with band! Let us cheer!” A small party of infantry marched past, accompanied by a large band. Jim stood up, watching them enthusiastically and talking away all the time. Receiving no criticisms from Barry, he turned. His flow of nonsense was checked. Barry, pale as death, clutching the edge of the marble-topped table, was staring--staring--across the street, his ghastly features those of one who sees a ghost! “Barry!” Jim gasped. “Barry!” Barry did not stir. When he spoke his voice was a whisper. “Jim,” he said, “_I have seen her!_” “What!” “She has just gone into the perfumers’ shop opposite.” “Barry!” Jim grasped his shoulder. “Wake up, man! You are daydreaming.” “Watch until she comes out,” the monotonous whisper went on. “Don’t let her see you, for God’s sake. But follow her, Jim--don’t lose sight of her--until you find out where she is living.” “But, Barry,” Jim began, a note of profound anxiety in his voice, when: “Quick! There she goes!” he was interrupted. He looked across the street. He gasped audibly; then: “Wait for me here!” he said tersely.