He found himself in twilight. The day had slipped off, while he struggled alone. His forehead was clammy with the effort going on. To go back into that dreary hopelessness, and not be able to think out the reason why! The force that he had to work with now came from the painful mistake he had made in working for reward before; from the shock of that realization in the red room, that underneath everything, he had counted on his virtue being crowned with Pidge somehow coming across. Now the fight changed. Persistently in the depths of him grew an awareness that he had not done the full task called of him merely in offering Ames money. This point became so ugly and evident--that he had to laugh. More and more, as moments sped on, it faced him squarely. He had no sentimentalism to tide him over; his emotions stayed ice cold. “But it’s like a fool Sunday-school story!” he muttered. Then again the words broke from him: “But living God, suppose she doesn’t want the bundle back! Suppose she’s been trying to lose it, and here I am running after her, saying, ‘You’ve dropped something, Madame----’” But he couldn’t budge. Full dark was in the room when he rung Ames at the _Charente_: “I’ve been thinking over this thing, Mr. Ames, and I’m asking a favor----” “Yes,” came coldly across the town. Ames believed he was trying to wriggle out of his promise to pay half. “I’ve come to the conclusion that this thing is up to me--the whole business, and I’ll thank you very much for Mr. Melton’s present address.” “No. 16, Rue de Belville, Villancourt.” The tones had warmed. “Thanks. I’ll report to you presently,” Cobden said. “Sure you don’t want me--or one of us to go along with you?” Ames persisted. “I’ll see what I can do alone first, if you don’t mind.” XXXIV THE HOUSE OF DUCIER QUEER drama, from eight to twelve that night in the little house of Ducier. Four hours--as long as an uncut opera! The sick man moaned, and interrupted everything, calling to Dicky Cobden: “For the love of God, don’t go ’way and leave me here! I’m done for, if you leave me alone again.... Oh, Cobden, Cobden----” The daughter wept. It was her entire part. She had a brown mole upon her ruddy rounded cheek, and very white small teeth in gums of a red that Dicky had never seen before except in dental advertisements. She was made of little curves, and all of them were required in the art of her weeping. “What’s the matter?” Dicky asked her, during a halt in the proceedings. “You are taking him away!” “I don’t seem to be very successful about it.” “Oh, but you will--you are taking him away!” Dicky was glad to hear that he was going to get what he came for, but the obstacles still looked serious. “Isn’t that what you want--to be rid and paid?” “My father--yes--but me--no, no! He is my lover--oh, such an adored!”