The chairs about them were becoming filled with loungers, as the day wore on to noon. A cosmopolitan crowd thronged the street and the neighbouring boulevard. Somewhere near by an orchestra had begun to play a melody very popular in New York. Newsboys shouted. Drivers of carts shouted. Everybody shouted. But Barry was silent. At last: “Well?” Jim inquired. “What do we do now?” “I have just decided,” Barry replied quietly. “It will be best for you to stay where you are at the Meurice. We don’t want to frighten her. But I shall transfer to the Chatham, at once.” CHAPTER XXXI. THE MEETING If Barry Cumberland had his weaknesses--and who has not?--he had one marked virtue. He knew what he wanted, and always headed straight for his objective. In fact, his impulsiveness was excessive and sometimes overrode his practical common sense. He was wise enough to know this, for he was well stocked with imagination; and, safely lodged at the Hôtel Chatham that afternoon, he made a direct move, which was characteristic, but one that allowed of safe withdrawal in the event of failure. This was sound strategy. His tentative advance was suggested by the name of the mysterious guest--“Devina.” John Cumberland sometimes spoke of a Madame Devina, a once famous operatic soprano of the Metropolitan Opera; an idol of New York who had disappeared from the musical world at the height of her success. She had been entertained at the Cumberland home more than once during a brilliant season notable for her singing of Thaïs--the rôle which had made her reputation. Those days Barry could just remember and no more. They belonged to the dreams of childhood in which his dainty mother figured as the centre of a wonderful world. Now, those memories served a good purpose, and, seated in his room, he wrote the following note: Dear Madam: Please forgive an impulsive countryman for intruding. But I chanced to see your name in the register to-day, and it reminded me of the fact that my father, John Cumberland, and my mother, were formerly friends of Madame Devina. As the name is an unusual one, I venture to ask if you are related to that lady. If you are, I should be more than happy to make your acquaintance, and my father, I know, would be delighted to hear of you. Respectfully, Barry Cumberland. This he directed to “Miss Marguerite Devina” and gave to a page to be delivered to her in person. His letter dispatched, Barry restlessly crossed to the window, which he threw open. It overlooked a garden courtyard, which for some reason cast his memory back to Shepheard’s in Cairo. Many balconies looked down upon this sheltered oasis, and he allowed his imagination to tell him that one of them belonged to the room of Zalithea.… Zalithea! Was there any such person as Zalithea? Had there _ever_ been a Zalithea?