He turned away, and Bert, after shaking hands with the exuberant little Frenchman, followed. Jacques stood for a moment staring after them, then waved his cane in the air for no purpose whatever, and said, perplexedly, “_Tous les Américains sont fous...._” Ken walked rapidly, as one in haste to reach a definite destination; he did not speak. Bert, keeping pace with him, watched his friend’s face covertly; it was a gray mask without expression, a mask that seemed to tell a tale of years double that which made the total of Kendall’s life. They diagonaled across the Place Marengo and at a more acute angle through the Place du Louvre to the Quai du Louvre and crossed the Pont Neuf, which carried them over the broader arm of the Seine, the upper point of the Cité, where to their left arose the dark mass of the Palais de Justice, and across the narrower branch of the river to the Quai des Augustins. Presently the Place St.-Michel opened before them, and, as Kendall turned into it Bert stopped to demand where they were going. “To find her,” said Kendall. Bert nodded. “I thought so.” It was like Kendall—to start upon a search for her immediately. Just as jealousy, made more vicious by an attack of Puritan conscience, had caused him to drive Andree out of his life, so now that same conscience demanded that immediate reparation be made. If Bert knew his friend, then Kendall would be unable to rest until he had seen Andree, until he had debased himself before her and begged her forgiveness.... “Does she live here?” he asked. “Near the Panthéon some place.... I don’t know. I haven’t her address.... Bert, I don’t even know her last name!” “Eh? What’s that?” “I don’t know her name.... Somehow that was a part of it—the mystery—not knowing. It—I can’t explain it to you—but she seemed like something dainty and lovely that appeared out of nothingness. I never asked, because I didn’t want to know. She appeared and disappeared—like a fairy.... It was as if she were immaterial and only materialized herself for me—do you understand?” “I’m darned if I do.” “I always left her a little ways beyond—on the rue Soufflot. She went on alone toward the Panthéon. That’s all I know. Just that her name was Andree—and that she could appear and disappear. It was that unreality that made the whole thing possible.” “A few practical details would make the whole thing a lot more possible now.... What do you aim to do?” “Wait for her.” “Huh!... Where?” “At the corner of the rue Soufflot.... She may pass to-night.” “And she may not pass for a month.” “Then I’ll wait a month,” said Kendall, and Bert knew that his friend meant what he said.