Barry had considered the idea of engaging a detective agency to trace Zalithea, so strangely found only to be lost again. But, in the circumstances, he had decided that to do so would be unwise. Marguerite’s letter he almost knew by heart. At first, the shock of it had stunned him. The readjustment of perspectives which it entailed appalled his brain. But out of all the chaos one fact emerged--a fact brooking no denial. He loved her. He could not imagine life without her. His eagerness was eternally conjuring up mirages. A group at a café table would suddenly come into view--and _she_ was there. As he drew nearer, all resemblance would disappear. He hated those unconscious mimics, some of whom were astoundingly unlike Marguerite at close quarters. Perfumery stores he unfailingly explored. And a hundred times he had run like a madman to overtake some girl seen in the distance--only to alarm a stranger. More than one gendarme had eyed him with suspicion. A tall, distinguished-looking old gentleman, wearing the ribbon of the Legion and escorting a very pretty girl whose figure and carriage certainly resembled those of Marguerite, demanded the name of his hotel and promised to send his seconds to Barry in the morning. And now he was on the outskirts of the woods. Just ahead lay the group of villas which had attracted his attention on the previous day. He proposed to pursue a plan adopted on other occasions: viz.--to call at a likely-looking house and ask if Miss Devina and her father were at home. Being assured that he had come to the wrong address, he could inquire if two Americans resided anywhere in the vicinity. Following an unseasonably hot morning, clouds had begun to gather shortly after noon. Now, it was growing very dark. The woods on his right were haunted by ghostly shadows. From somewhere beyond the western outskirts of Paris echoed ominous rumblings, to remind good Parisians of that black day when Von Kluck’s Prussians came hammering at their gates. Then, suddenly, the downpour started. In sight of a charming little villa whose green shutters and green balconies were visible above a guardian row of dwarf acacias, Barry darted to cover. His back against the trunk of a tree the dense foliage of which promised shelter, he stood, looking up. A black thunder pall hung directly above. Except for the sound of falling rain, a profound stillness had come. Then, blindingly, lightning flicked its venomous fang from the heart of the cloud. The house opposite was illuminated ice blue, eerily. Every leaf upon the trees was lent a momentary hard, individual existence. Every nail in the woodwork of the villa gate, every piece of gravel on the garden paths, summoned attention vividly, alone, aloof from the rest.… And a window directly facing the tree beneath which Barry stood was thrown open. Marguerite came out onto the green balcony!