“Each in his own way! Are there so many ways to forgetfulness? I can only think of two: work and drink.” “Ah, but there is Woman!” “True, there is Woman. Strictly speaking, I considered her included in--however, that is but a quibble! Personally, I have no preference. I will take what you gentlemen leave.” It was Wooler who said this. “Would _you put us upon our_ consciences? No; let Dame Chance take a hand in dealing. We write the names--so!--and we each draw--so! Mine is work.” That was Farlough’s luck. Insgate’s slip said “Drink.” “For me,” said Wooler, “the Woman.” He lifted his glass, laughing quietly. “I wonder who she is. Well, we shall see.” “Where shall we meet again?” “And when?” “A year from today. In the garden of the Belle-Alliance Theatre in Berlin. Travel is a necessary obligato.” Somewhat solemnly, though with cheerful gestures, they pledged one another in a silently emptied glass of port. And then they sauntered into the drawing-room. [Illustration] * * * * * A year later, Farlough strolled into the Belle-Alliance Theatre. He looked healthier and stronger; the tired look had left his eyes. He looked over the theatre lovingly. It had not changed much. Never very gay, but always cosy. They were presenting Lortzing’s ever delightful “Zar und Zimmerman,” and, while it was by no means an adequate performance, it was decidedly a pleasant one. When the curtain had come down after the first act, Farlough strolled out into the garden. The place was brilliant with its hundreds of crystal-clasped lights overhanging the graveled walks. A throng of Berliners went chattering about. Only a very occasional Englishman or American came into evidence. In the small open air theatre a comedian was giving a lively imitation of Sarah Bernhardt. But nowhere was there a sign of either of those two gentlemen, John Wooler and Andrew Insgate. Farlough turned his steps toward the box office. He made an inquiry. The official bowed politely. He handed him two letters. He bowed again and muttered mechanically, “Gehorsamster Diener!” He was from Vienna. Putting the letters into his pocket after a quick scrutiny of the writing upon each envelope, Farlough returned to the theatre. When the last notes had joined the echoes, he had himself driven over to the _Hotel D’Angleterre_. There he opened the envelopes and read the two letters.