But, as we have said, there is also such a thing as luck. Gabrielle de Poirier was insufferably bored. Her Russian was in Moscow, her recent tips at Auteuil had proved disastrous, her latest feuilleton had been rejected. For six hours she had been buried among the cushions of the divan, clad materially in light pink but mentally in deepest blue, skipping from page to page of a novel that was not amusing, and confronted every ten minutes by the recurrent realization that the next event on her calendar was a dinner at the Café de Paris, which would not come for the eternity of twenty-seven hours! Despite her ungracious reception of Louise, she had been grateful for the diversion, and hardly had she sneered at Dodo's position before she lit a cigarette, and fell to studying the situation seriously. Louise, pausing, breathless, after her tirade, was surprised to find that she made no reply, looking straight before her with her great eyes half closed, and put down her silence as equivalent to admission of the charges hurled against her. The truth of the matter was, however, that Gabrielle had not heard one word of her visitor's impassioned denunciation! There was a long silence, and then the demi-mondaine looked up. "Where does your brother live?" she asked, touching an electric button at her side, "and what is his first name?" "At the Hôtel du Rhin," stammered Louise, "and his name is Do--I should say Charles,--Charles Chapuis. I am at the Hôtel de Choiseuil." "Bon!" said the other. "If you will go home, mademoiselle, and keep your own counsel, I think I can promise you that you will shortly have your brother back." Louise stepped forward impulsively. "Oh, madame!"--she began. But just then the valet-de-pied appeared at the door, and Gabrielle, taking up her novel, flounced back among the cushions. "Bon jour, mademoiselle," she said, without looking at Louise. "Achille, la porte! And send Mathilde to me." The conference between mistress and maid was brief but eloquent. "Who," demanded Gabrielle, "is Dodo Chapuis?" "The young monsieur of Boule-de-Boue," responded Mathilde promptly. "Parfaitement. I needed to refresh my memory. And how long is it since we cabled the last tuyau?" "Eight weeks, at least, madame--before the coming of Monsieur Chapuis." "Bon!" said Gabrielle. "We cable another tip at once." (For it may be noted, in passing, that she had one source of income which La Belle Thaïs little suspected!) "What does Boule-de-Boue do to-night?" she demanded again. "Dines at home with Monsieur Chapuis," replied the omniscient Mathilde, "dances at the Fol' Berg' at eleven, sups at Paillard's with Monsieur Chapuis." (For it may also be noted, in passing, that the maid of La Belle Thaïs had one source of income which her mistress totally ignored!) "Très bien!" said Gabrielle. "Now a pen and paper, the inkstand, envelopes, sealing wax, and a telegraph form, and write as I tell thee."