They fell to discussing other things. Bobby, obsessed by his recent experiences, could not resist telling his companion something about them. But he did not mention Ramsey. The implied admission that he had been cut out was too humiliating. Clancey’s interest was evidently aroused. He wanted to hear all about Madame de Corantin. “She seems to have fascinated you,” he remarked. “She’d fascinate anybody.” “And you really don’t know what has become of her? How extraordinary!” “Isn’t it?” “You mean to say you cannot trace her in any way?” “I have no more idea than the man in the moon where she is.” Clancey reflected. “Did you say she was French?” he asked. “Her husband was; she herself is Russian.” Clancey looked at him. “Oh, Russian, is she? Corantin, Corantin. Let me see. I seem to remember the name somehow.” “No, do you?” Bobby’s voice betrayed his interest. “I must think about it,” said Clancey. He pulled out his watch. “I think it is time I got back to the War Office. I’ll see about the commission, Froelich, and let you know.” “This is where I live,” said Bobby, handing him a card. “Do look me up. I do want that commission, and as quickly as possible.” They went out of the restaurant and separated in the street, Bobby taking his way towards his rooms in Down Street. He was wondering whether perhaps luck had come his way, and whether Clancey would reveal to him some means of finding Madame de Corantin. If he did, damn the commission! That evening, as on all others, Bobby was bored to death; the habits of twenty years were not to be thrown off in a day. It was impossible for him to go to bed before the small hours, and not knowing how else to kill time he dropped in at the Savoy restaurant. It was late when he got there, and he strolled through the foyer, stopping at various tables to talk to acquaintances. He had no intention of taking supper, but just wanted to see who was there. Of a sudden, for no reason that he could possibly have explained, an impulse made him walk into the restaurant. In that instant he felt positively, he could have sworn that Madame de Corantin was there. His heart beat so that he thought it must be heard as he made his way to the entrance, and immediately, with a strange sort of intuition, his eyes found her. There she was, at the table on the right. He could see her through the glass screen, and Ramsey was with her. He stood still a moment, devouring her with his eyes, and then she looked up and recognized him. Was she really beckoning to him? The reaction was so great that he dared not believe the evidence of his senses. No, there was no doubt; she was actually beckoning. As he walked towards the table he felt as though his legs would give way under him; and now he was by her; he held her hand. “Ah, Bobby, my friend, I am so pleased to see you.”