Smoke had come trailing out of Belward’s nose, his head thrown back, his eyes on the ceiling. It stopped, and came out of his mouth on one long, straight whiff. Then the painter brought his head to a natural position slowly, and looking with a furtive nonchalance at Meyerbeer, said: “Who is what?” “Who’s Zoug-Zoug?” “That is your one solitary question, is it?” “That’s it.” “Very well. Now, I’ll be scavenger. What is the story? Who is the woman--for you’ve got a woman in it, that’s certain?” “Will you tell me, then, whether you know Zoug-Zoug?” “Yes.” “The woman is Mademoiselle Victorine, the dompteuse.” “Ah, I’ve not seen her yet. She burst upon Paris while I was away. Now, straight: no lies: who are the others?” Meyerbeer hesitated; for, of course, he did not wish to speak of Gaston at this stage in the game. But he said: “Count Ploare--and Zoug-Zoug.” “Why don’t you tell me the truth?” “I do. Now, who is Zoug-Zoug?” “Find out.” “You said you’d tell me.” “No. I said I’d tell you if I knew Zoug-Zoug. I do.” “That’s all you’ll tell me?” “That’s all. And see, scavenger, take my advice and let Zoug-Zoug alone. He’s a man of influence; and he’s possessed of a devil. He’ll make you sorry, if you meddle with him!” He rose, and Meyerbeer did the same, saying: “You’d better tell me.” “Now, don’t bother me. Drink your vermouth, take that bundle of cigarettes, and hunt Zoug-Zoug else where. If you find him, let me know. Good-bye.” Meyerbeer went out furious. The treatment had been too heroic. “I’ll give a sweet savour to your family name,” he said with an oath, as he shook his fist at the closed door. Ian Belward sat back and looked at the ceiling reflectively. “H’m!” he said at last. “What the devil does this mean? Not Andree, surely not Andree! Yet I wasn’t called Zoug-Zoug before that. It was Bagshot’s insolent inspiration at Auvergne. Well, well!” He got up, drew over a portfolio of sketches, took out two or three, put them in a row against a divan, sat down, and looked at them half quizzically. “It was rough on you, Andree; but you were hard to please, and I am constant to but one. Yet, begad, you had solid virtues; and I wish, for your sake, I had been a different kind of fellow. Well, well, we’ll meet again some time, and then we’ll be good friends, no doubt.” He turned away from the sketches and picked up some illustrated newspapers. In one was a portrait. He looked at it, then at the sketches again and again. “There’s a resemblance,” he said. “But no, it’s not possible. Andree-Mademoiselle Victorine! That would be amusing. I’d go to-morrow and see, if I weren’t off to Fontainebleau. But there’s no hurry: when I come back will do.” CHAPTER XV. WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN