“Thank heaven for that! You’ve saved my reason,” I assured him as I leaned against the wall and scanned the Germanic hordes. “Mr. Ritter,” said I, addressing that gentleman coldly, “when I am next in New York I don’t think I shall stop with you. The atmosphere here is too hectic; you answer calls for help too slowly--calls, at least, in which a guest indiscreetly tells you that he has caught a German thief. It looks extremely queer, gentlemen. And there are some other points as well--” But there I paused. I lacked the necessary conviction. After all I was the average citizen, with the average incredulity of the far-fetched, the melodramatic, the absurd. To connect the head waiter’s panic at my departure with the episode in my room, to declare that the floor clerks had been called from their posts for a set purpose, and the halls deliberately cleared for the thief, were flights of fancy that were beyond me. The more fool I! By the time I saw the last of the adventure I began that night--it was all written in the nth power, and introduced in more or less important roles the most charming girl in the world, the most spectacular hero of France, the cleverest secret-service agent in the pay of the fatherland, and I sometimes ruefully suspected, the biggest imbecile of the United States in the person of myself--I knew better than to call any idea impossible simply because it might sound wild. But at the moment my education was in its initial stages, and turning with a shrug from three scowling faces, I led my friendly bluecoat a little aside. “I’ve no more time to-night to spend thief-catching, Officer,” I told him. I had just recalled my dinner, now utterly ruined, and Dunny, probably at this instant cracking walnuts as fiercely as if each one were the kaiser’s head. “But I’m an amateur in these affairs, and you are a master. Before I go, as man to man, what the dickens do you make of this?” Flattered, he looked profound. “I’m thinking, sorr,” he gave judgment, “ye had the rights of it. Seein’ as how th’ thafe is German, ye’ll not set eyes on him more--for divil a wan here but’s of that counthry, and they stick together something fierce!” “Well,” I admitted, “our thoughts run parallel. Here is something to drink confusion to them all. And, O’Reilly, I am glad I’m going to sail to-morrow. I’d rather live on a sea full of submarines than in this hotel, wouldn’t you?” Touching his forehead, he assented, and wished me good-night and a good journey; part of his hope went unfulfilled, by the way. That ocean voyage of mine was to take rank, in part at least, as a first-class nightmare. The Central powers could scarcely have improved on it by torpedoing us in mid-ocean or by speeding us upon our trip with a cargo of clock-work bombs. CHAPTER III ON THE RE D’ITALIA