She paused in her swinging about the room for which I was sorry, as her panther-in-a-cage movements were exceedingly beautiful, and she gazed at me with a tragic air, wringing her hands. I was puzzled to find an adequate reason for this sudden emotional outburst. Hitherto she had accepted the prospect of a resumption of married life with a fatalistic calm. Now when the man is either dead or has vanished into space, she pins all her hopes of happiness on finding him. And why had her salvation from destruction nothing to do with Dale? There is obviously another range of emotions at work beneath it all; but what their nature is baffles me. Although I contemplate with equanimity my little corner in the Garden of Prosperpine, and with indifference this common lodging-house of earth, and although I view mundane affairs with the same fine, calm, philosophic, satirical eye as if I were already a disembodied spirit, yet I do not like to be baffled. It makes me angry. But during this interview with Lola Brandt I had not time to be angry. I am angry now. In fact I am in a condition bordering on that of a mad dog. If Rogers came and disturbed me now, as I am writing, I would bite him. But I will set calmly down the story of this appalling afternoon. Lola stood before me wringing her hands. “What are you going to do?” “I can get an introduction to the _Chef de bureau_ of the information department of the _Ministere de la Guerre_ in Paris,” I replied after a moment's reflection. “He will be able to tell me whether Captain Vauvenarde is alive or dead.” “He is alive. He must be.” “Very well. But I doubt whether Captain Vauvenarde keeps the office informed of his movements.” “But you'll go in search of him, won't you?” “The earth is rather a large place,” I objected. “He may be in Dieppe, or he may be on top of Mount Popocatapetl.” “I'm sure you'll find him,” she said encouragingly. “You'll own,” said I, “that there's something humourous in the idea of my wandering all over the surface of the planet in search of a lost captain of Chasseurs. It is true that we might employ a private detective.” “Yes!” she cried eagerly. “Why not? Then you could stay here--and I could go on seeing you till the news came. Let us do that.” The swiftness of her change of mood surprised me. “What is the particular object of your going on seeing me?” I asked, with a smile. She turned away and shrugged her shoulders and took up her pensive attitude by the fire. “I have no other friend,” she said. “There's Dale.” “He's not the same.” “There's Sir Joshua Oldfield.” She shrugged her shoulders.