“Well, that he may have drawn some accursed lot to do some idiotic thing—something in which even he himself doesn’t believe.” “I haven’t an idea of what sort of thing you mean. But if he doesn’t believe in it he can easily let it alone.” “Do you think he’s a customer who will back out of a real vow?” the fiddler asked. The Princess freely wondered. “One can never judge of people in that way till they’re tested.” And the next thing: “Haven’t you even taken the trouble to question him?” “What would be the use? He’d tell me nothing. It would be like a man giving notice when he’s going to fight a duel.” She sat for some seconds in thought; she looked up at Mr. Vetch with a pitying, indulgent smile. “I’m sure you’re worrying about a mere shadow; but that never prevents, does it? I still don’t see exactly how I can help you.” “Do you want him to commit some atrocity, some mad infamy?” the old man appealed. “My dear sir, I don’t want him to do anything in all the wide world. I’ve not had the smallest connexion with any engagement of any kind that he may have entered into. Do me the honour to trust me,” the Princess went on with a certain high dryness of tone. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deprive myself of your confidence. Trust the young man a little too. He’s a gentleman and will behave as a gentleman.” The fiddler rose from his chair, smoothing his hat silently with the cuff of his coat. He stood there, whimsical and piteous, as if the sense he had still something to urge mingled with that of his having received his dismissal and as if indeed both were tinged with the oddity of another idea. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of!” he returned. Then he added, continuing to look at her: “But he _must_ be very fond of life.” The Princess took no notice of the insinuation contained in these words. “Leave him to me—leave him to me. I’m sorry for your anxiety, but it was very good of you to come to see me. That has been interesting, because you’ve been one of our friend’s influences.” “Unfortunately yes! If it hadn’t been for me he wouldn’t have known Poupin, and if he hadn’t known Poupin he wouldn’t have known his chemical friend—what’s his name?—Muniment.” “And has that done him harm, do you think?” the Princess asked. She had risen to her feet. “Surely: that deep fellow has been the main source of his infection.” “I lose patience with you!” she made answer, turning away. And indeed her visitor’s persistence was irritating. He went on, lingering, his head thrust forward and his short arms, out at his sides, terminating in his hat and umbrella, which he held grotesquely and as if intended for emphasis or illustration: “I’ve supposed for a long time that it was either Muniment or you who had got him into his scrape. It was you I suspected most—much most; but if it isn’t you it must be he.” “You had better go to him then!” “Of course I’ll go to him. I scarcely know him—I’ve seen him but once—but I’ll speak my mind.”