"Cannot call to-day. Obliged to go abroad on important business. Will write. "McTAGGART." Once on board the boat he began a letter to Cydonia; but the passage was rough and he abandoned the attempt, returning to the deck to enjoy the sight of the great rollers slapping up against the sides of the steamer and breaking into high columns of spray, glittering like mica in the wintry sunshine. He consoled himself with the thought that Mr. Cadell would undoubtedly keep a stern eye on the post, and that his missive was unlikely to reach the lady of his heart. His luggage was registered through to Siena, and, when he arrived at the Gare du Nord, he took an "auto," directing the man to drive him down the Boulevards. After the damp of London, the air, light and exciting, went to his head. He drew it in, in deep breaths, with its sharp familiar scent of roasting coffee-berries, of waxed floors and of wine, that the crowded cafes wafted toward him as he passed: that typical smell of Paris, pungent, unforgettable, which welcomes the votaries of the City of Light. He dined at Noel Peter's and felt absurdly pleased when the gerant recognized him as one of a quartette who more than a year since had frequented the restaurant on an Easter holiday visit. Then, turning up the Passage des Princes, he strolled along happily, glad to stretch his legs before his long night journey. The flower shops were fairy-like; the jewellers' ablaze. Slim forms, muffled in furs, slipped past with that subtle air of conscious power, of sure and sensuous appeal which marks the Parisienne in every grade of life. Clubmen were strolling toward their 'aperitifs,' husbands with wives, sedately arm in arm, trim 'midinettes' and bare-headed 'bonnes'; all combined to give the crowded pavements the sense of a meeting place, an outdoor haunt of pleasure spiced with intrigue instead of a mere channel for the traffic. McTaggart reached the Madeleine, glanced down the Rue Royale and, with a sigh of regret, hailed a passing auto. He was jarred and rattled over the stones of that aggressive road which ends at the Gare de Lyon. Bethune had wired that morning for a wagon-lit, a wise precaution as the train was packed. The conductor, in reply to his stilted French, led McTaggart down the long corridor. "A telegram without name? From London, Monsieur?" He produced it and McTaggart smiled. In the hurry of departure his careful friend had omitted this essential. "Voici, Monsieur." The young man peeped past him into the narrow coupe. The beds were already arranged for the night and on the lower berth, impassive, there sat a very fat priest, absorbed in his breviary. The windows were shut, the heat turned on full. McTaggart drew back with a gesture of disgust. "This won't do." Unconsciously his voice took on that arrogant note which the travelling Englishman employs for the benefit of foreign servants.