Therefore the subject was dropped, and as I resolved to tell her of my adventure later, she left me for the night. I am seldom troubled by insomnia, but that night little sleep came to my eyes. I lay there thinking it all over. I had now not the slightest doubt but that the man in the owl’s dress was the assassin of poor Reggie. And I had chatted amicably with him. I had actually danced with him! The very thought held me horrified. What marvellous self-confidence the fellow had displayed; what cool audacity, what unwarrantable interference in my private affairs, and what a terrible counter-stroke he had effected in presenting me with the actual notes filched from the dead man’s pockets! The incident was rendered none the less bewildering on account of the entire absence of motive. I lay awake reflecting upon it the whole night long. When we took our morning coffee together I related to Ulrica all that had passed. She sat, a pretty, dainty figure, in her lace-trimmed and beribboned robe-de-chambre, leaning her bare elbows upon the table, and listening open-mouthed. “And the police actually allowed him to escape scot-free?” she cried indignantly. “Yes.” “The thing is monstrous. I begin to think that their failure to trace the murderer is because they are in league with him. Here, abroad, one never knows. My dear Carmela, depend upon it that in this world of Monte Carlo the police are bribed just as the press, the railway men, and porters are bribed by those rulers of the Riviera, the Administration of the Société des Bains de Mer de Monaco.” “That may be so,” I observed wonderingly. “But the fact still remains that last night I danced with Reggie’s assassin.” “Did he dance well?” “Oh Ulrica! Don’t treat the thing humorously!” I protested. “I’m not humorous. The worst of Carnival balls is that they’re such mixed affairs. One meets millionaires and murderers, and rubs shoulders with the most notorious women in Europe. Your adventure, however, is absolutely unique. If it got into the papers what a nice little story it would make, wouldn’t it?” “For Heaven’s sake, no!” I cried. “Well, if you don’t want it to reach the _Petit Niçois_ or the _Eclaireur_ you’d better be pretty close about it. Poor Reggie’s murder is a mystery, and the public fondly delight to read anything about a mystery.” We discussed it for a long time, until the entrance of Felicita caused us to drop the subject. Yes, it was, as Ulrica had declared, an absolute enigma. About four o’clock in the afternoon, when we had both dressed ready to go out,--for we had accepted an invitation to go on an excursion in automobile up to Tourette,--the waiter entered with a card, which Ulrica took and read. “Oh,” she sighed, “here’s another detective! Don’t let him keep us, dear. You know the Allens won’t wait for us. They said four o’clock sharp, opposite Vogarde’s.” “But we can’t refuse to see him,” I said.