“Well, that is just what struck me, my dear sir; you look tired, altered, you never go into society nowadays; have you had worries perhaps?” Ascott nodded and was about to speak when the American broke in, making his question more definite: “I’ve heard vaguely of some untoward adventure you were the hero of a while ago....” “Rather say the victim,” put in Ascott. The detective caught him up: “The victim! come, that’s a big word; what _did_ happen to you?” The young Englishman seemed unwilling to explain his words. “Oh! nothing,” he said, “or nothing much!” Then, after a pause, and as if he had just come to a supreme decision, he got up, strode two or three times up and down the room, then standing before the detective with folded arms, he declared: “Tom Bob, I should by rights be more angry with you than in fact I am, for you have played me a trick, a damnable trick, involuntarily, I am sure of that, but the fact remains, you have played me one of those tricks men find it hard to forgive, you have supplanted me in the affections of a woman I loved.” The detective gave a gesture of protestation. “Pooh! my good sir,” he said, “women and their ways! these things are never to be taken seriously.” “That depends; no doubt, you will tell me I had for ages been courting the princess without winning the smallest favour from her, while it was enough for you to arrive on the scene to become instantly the darling of her heart ... well, be it so! I do not press the point, and you may have noticed this, that I never tried to compete with you. No, luck or ill luck decreed that at that very moment my affections took the field elsewhere....” Tom Bob heaved a sigh of relief. “I am delighted to hear it, I should have been grieved to give you pain.” “Man!” pursued the young man, “you cannot imagine what happened next.” Throwing off his indifference more and more, Ascott, glad of the opportunity to tell his troubles to another, confided to the detective his extraordinary adventure with Nini Guinon and the threats addressed to him; the consequences of a passing caprice had come to a head. Tom Bob preserved his calm as he listened to the story. “And then?” he asked, when Ascott stopped to take breath. “Then,” declared the latter, “it is my duty to give you a piece of news, a great piece of news—I am getting married, I am marrying Nini Guinon!” “Good luck!” cried the detective, “and when is it to be?” “This morning, almost directly.” “Bad luck!” ejaculated Tom Bob—“and I was just wanting to ask you to breakfast!” “Yes,” went on Ascott, with an air of dejection, “in two hours’ time I shall be the lawful husband of an old usurer’s niece, Père Moche’s niece; oh! it is a fine kettle of fish!” “Ascott,” put in Tom Bob, trying to console him, “you are marrying under French law; you know, don’t you? that divorce is allowed.” Ascott shrugged his shoulders: “That would make things no better!” “But why?”