And before I could prevent him he had raised his hat with a show of politeness, and walked hurriedly off across the broad Place in the direction of the Boulevard des Italiens. In chagrin I bit my lip, for instead of giving me any clue to the hiding-place of my errant wife, his words only tended to increase my mistrust and despair. Was not, however, his refusal only what I might have expected? I rose and slowly walked away down the Rue Auber, deeply reflecting upon his denunciation of Ella's faithlessness. What motive could he have, I wondered, in thus declaring that she had never loved me? That night Cargill dined with me, and after taking our coffee and liqueurs in the courtyard of the Continental, watching the well-dressed crowd of idlers who assemble there nightly after dinner, we strolled out along the brightly-lit streets, where all Paris was enjoying the cool, star-lit evening after the heat and burden of the day. Our footsteps led us unconsciously to that Mecca of the Briton or American resident in Paris, the Hotel Chatham, and entering the American bar we found assembled there a number of mutual acquaintances. At one of the small wooden tables sat my old and valued friend, Henry Allender, counsel to the United States Embassy in Paris, a man universally liked in both British and American colonies of the French capital, and opposite him a short, stout, round-faced Frenchman, attired in grey, and wearing the Legion of Honour in his lapel--Monsieur Goron, the well-known Chief of Police. From both I received a cordial welcome, and as we sat down to chat over cocktails carefully mixed by the deft, loquacious bar-tender, Tommy, I took up _Le Monde Illustre_, lying upon the table, and opened it carelessly. Several pages I had turned over, when suddenly my eyes fell upon a full-page illustration of a beautiful woman in evening dress, with a fine diamond tiara upon her head. The features were unmistakable. With an involuntary cry that startled my companions, I sat rigid and motionless, glaring at it in abject dismay. The portrait itself did not surprise me so much as the amazing words printed beneath. The latter held me spellbound. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. COSMOPOLITANS. "Why, what's the matter, old chap?" inquired Cargill, bending forward quickly to glance at the journal. "You look as if you've got an acute attack of the jim-jams." "See!" I gasped hoarsely, pointing to the printed page upon which my strained eyes had riveted themselves. "Deucedly pretty woman," declared the attache, who was nothing if not a ladies' man. Few men were better known in Paris than Hugh Cargill. "Yes, yes, I know," I exclaimed impatiently. I was sitting dumbfounded, the words beneath the picture dancing before my vision in letters of fire.