Faber listened to all this with the interest of a man who is obsessed by one dominating idea. This Commune had been the first attempt in modern times to set up the socialism of Marx--and in what had it ended? In a deluge of blood, and the derision of all sane people. He wondered what would have been the modern story of Paris if Félix Pyat and his fellows had been stronger than Thiers and the Versaillese. A consummate knowledge of modern politics reminded him that the blue blouses of France were still socialistic to the core, and that individualism sat upon a throne of straw. He had often thought that such fortunes as his own would never be made by generations to come; but that concerned him little, for he had no children. The reflection brought an image of Gabrielle Silvester to his mind. It was odd that he should think of her while the old soldier related these bloody scenes. Bertie Morris, on the other hand, enjoyed himself immensely. He drove his tame millionaire as far up the Butte as he could, and even took him to the Rue Lepic and the Moulin de la Galette. He was a prize to be shown to artists and authors, poor devils who would dine that night for fifty sous and sell their masterpieces for as many to-morrow. This pilgrimage of the ateliers was not unwelcome to Faber, and was made at his own request. "I want to hear of a man," he said, "Louis de Paleologue is his name." "Where do you think he hides up?" Bertie asked. Faber said that he had no idea. "He was drawing for Gavarnie some forty years ago. I've never heard of him since, and I wasn't born then." "Say, that's simple. Has he any grandfathers alive?" "It's a fine story," was the quiet response. "I only learned it a year or two back, when I found some of my mother's papers. Louis de Paleologue was the man who took her over to America when General d'Arny shot my father. There was a pile of correspondence between them, and it does the man great credit. If I find him living I'll give him a million dollars, if he'll take them." Bertie Morris whistled. "You don't suggest a preliminary canter. Why not try it on the dog? He's willing." "Most dogs are. My world is all barking. You find Paleologue for me, and see what Father Christmas puts in your stocking. He's the only man in Europe I ever did want to see outside my own business. It's natural that I can't find him." "Can you tell me anything about him? Where did he live? What was he? For whom did he work? I'm right out for this, Mr. Faber." Faber smiled. "He was an artist who drew small pictures with a large genius. They say he worked for Hachette. The last letters speaks of his marriage--it must have been written many years ago. I cabled to Paris when it came into my hands, and the answer back from your office was that he had gone to the East. That means Paleologue was a Roumanian, and he's gone home. I suppose I shall have to follow him."