Aristide asked for details of the unhappy affair. The large man hesitated for a moment and glanced suspiciously at his companion; but, fascinated by the clear, luminous eyes, he launched with Southern violence into a whirling story. The villain was a traveller in buttons--_buttons!_ To be wronged by a traveller in diamonds might have its compensations--but buttons! Linen buttons, bone buttons, brass buttons, _trouser buttons!_ To be a traveller in the inanity of buttonholes was the only lower degradation. His name was Bondon--he uttered it scathingly, as if to decline from a Bocardon to a Bondon was unthinkable. This Bondon was a regular client of the hotel, and such a client!--who never ordered a bottle of _vin cacheté_ or coffee or cognac. A contemptible creature. For a long time he had his suspicions. Now he was certain. He tossed off his glass of Dubonnet, ordered another, and spoke incoherently of the opening and shutting of doors, whisperings, of a dreadful incident, the central fact of which was a glimpse of Zette gliding wraith-like down a corridor. Lastly, there was the culminating proof, a letter found that morning in Zette's room. He drew a crumpled sheet from his pocket and handed it to Aristide. [Illustration: "THE VILLAIN WAS A TRAVELLER IN BUTTONS--BUTTONS!"] It was a crude, flaming, reprehensible, and entirely damning epistle. Aristide turned cold, shivering at the idea of the superb and dainty Zette coming in contact with such abomination. He hated Bondon with a murderous hate. He drank a great gulp of absinthe and wished it were Bondon's blood. Great tears rolled down Bocardon's face, and gathering at the ends of his scrubby moustache dripped in splashes on the marble table. "I loved her so tenderly, monsieur," said he. The cry, so human, went straight to Aristide's heart. A sympathetic tear glistened in his bright eyes. He was suddenly filled with an immense pity for this grief-stricken, helpless giant. An odd feminine streak ran through his nature and showed itself in queer places. Impulsively he stretched out his hand. "You're going?" asked Bocardon. "No. A sign of good friendship." They gripped hands across the table. A new emotion thrilled through the facile Aristide. "Bocardon, I devote myself to you," he cried, with a flamboyant gesture. "What can I do?" "Alas, nothing," replied the other, miserably. "And Zette? What does she say to it all?" The mountainous shoulders heaved with a shrug. "She denies everything. She had never seen the letter until I showed it to her. She did not know how it came into her room. As if that were possible!" "It's improbable," said Aristide, gloomily.