She turned and walked out of the lobby. Jim did not afterward remember having seen her leave. It was the scrutiny of the officials that brought him to his senses and sharpened his ready wits. He turned to the clerk, taking a card from his wallet. It was the card of a member of the agency recently employed by John Cumberland! He tossed it on the desk, and: “You no doubt wonder what I’m up to?” he said breezily. “There’s the answer!” “Oh!” muttered the clerk, glancing at the name. “I see. But you were wrong, weren’t you?” “I’m afraid so,” Jim confessed--“quite wrong!” He stared at a menu that chanced to lie near and learned that he was in the Hôtel Chatham. “Nothing for the Chatham to worry about!” he added reassuringly. “But I should like to make my apologies. _We_ have a reputation, too!” He drew a pencil from his pocket. “What is the name of the lady I so unfortunately insulted?” “She is a Miss Marguerite Devina of New Jersey, U.S.A.” “Thanks,” said Jim, making a note of it. “Here alone?” “Yes. I believe she is expecting relatives to-day.” “Much obliged.” Jim nodded in a brusque fashion based upon that of the lawful owner of the card and stepped out into the street. The street gained, his assured manner deserted him. He was the most hopelessly bewildered American in Paris. What in the name of sanity should he tell Barry? That this _was_ Princess Zalithea he would have been prepared to declare upon oath. Besides, good actress though he granted her to be, she had failed to hide her surprise at sight of him. He had seen her bite her lip--to check what? A sudden utterance of his name? Probably. Her changed colour, her trembling hands, proved that she had recognized him. It was she. But what did it mean? How could he face Barry with such a story? Turning these problems over in his mind, he plodded back to the café. From afar he saw Barry--watching. At sight of Jim he jumped up and ran to meet him. “Tell me!” he cried, his eyes feverishly bright. “Where does she live?” “At the Hôtel Chatham.” “Thank God! And she didn’t see you?” “But she did!” “What!” “Come back and sit down, Barry,” Jim urged. “Get a grip on yourself. We’re together in this thing. Let me order you a glass of good cognac.” “You’re hiding something!” “I’ll give you the story word for word when you have sat down and had a drink and lighted your pipe. Not a damn’ syllable before!” He had his way, for he could be very truculent at times; and poor Barry Cumberland was a parody of his old masterful self. So, while Barry smoked furiously the story was told--a stranger story than any Jim had ever expected to have to tell. In conclusion: “If _you_ are mad,” he said, “I’m mad, too! Because Miss Marguerite Devina is Princess Zalithea. But Princess Zalithea only spoke _gazoobi_ or _swahili_--and Miss Devina speaks perfect English. Now search me! _Garçon, deux cognacs!_”