Once, this thing which had happened would have frightened him and set him questioning his own sanity. But now, as Jim had said that morning, “If _you_ are mad, _I’m_ mad, too!” Would she answer? Would she consent to see him? If she refused, what next? His anxiety and impatience made it impossible for Barry to keep still. He walked away from the window; paced the room; listened at his door for the footsteps of the returning messenger; then went across to the window again. For long minutes he stood there, moving restlessly. He lost track of time. A knocking on his door recalled him to reality. He turned, his heart leaping. “Come in!” he cried. The page entered. At a glance Barry saw that he brought no note. “Miss Devina will be downstairs at four o’clock, m’sieur.” No doubt the world went on as usual during the next hour, and Paris lived and loved and laughed as Paris has done from time immemorial; but to Barry the interval afterward appeared to have been a blank--a hiatus in existence. Four o’clock came at last.… She was seated in a cane chair before a little round table set for tea. She stood up as he crossed to her. “It was nice of you, Mr. Cumberland,” he heard her saying in Zalithea’s unforgettable voice! He found himself seated beside her. A waiter was serving English tea and handing little dishes of cakes, biscuits, and sweetmeats. This Barry saw and heard through a sort of fog. Everything was muffled. His sensations were almost identical with those he had known toward the close of his farewell college supper. Presently, in a voice not unlike his own: “You have not told me,” someone said, “if my guess was right. Are you related to Madame Devina?” “Devina was my mother.” The fog was cleared away by that definite, simple statement. The merciful numbness which alone had enabled Barry to behave himself rationally thus far left him. He looked into long, dark eyes. “You know that we have met before?” he said. Marguerite Devina watched him unflinchingly. “You had an accident some months ago right outside my door,” she replied. “But I didn’t know that you saw me. You were unconscious when we found you.” Barry clenched his teeth. An insane desire to laugh came to him. He knew he must fight it. “You are referring to my crash in New Jersey?” he said evenly, tonelessly. “Yes. You must have wondered why we behaved so oddly afterward. The fact is that my guardian and I were booked to sail for Europe, and we realized that if we appeared in the matter it would almost certainly mean delay. We couldn’t afford that, you see.” “Your guardian? Mr. Brown?” “Oh, no!” she laughed--Zalithea’s beloved laughter!--“Mr. Brown was the man who drove you to the hospital and took care of your car. We were tenants of his.” She hesitated, bit her lip, and: “When did you see me?” she asked--“before or after the accident?” “Before,” said Barry. “On the balcony.”