“That’s the idea,” said he, leaning back and spreading an arm behind my shoulders.

“But not all the money in the world, nor all the fame for that matter, would make me happy.”  Gretchen was so far away!  “Very well; we’ll go to Paris together; that is as far as I go.  To follow her you will have to go alone.”

“And why can’t you go the rest of the way?”

“Work.  I must be back in town in three days.  You must not forget that I have had my vacation; there is plenty to be done.”

“Now that you are comparatively wealthy, why not give up the grind, as you call it?”

“The truth is, I must work.  When a man works he forgets.”

“Then you have something to forget?”

“Every man who has reached the age of thirty has something to forget,” said I.

I was gloomy.  In my pocket I had the only letter I had ever received from Gretchen.  Every hour fate outdoes the romancer.  The story she had written for me was a puzzling one.  And the finis?  Who could say?  Fate is more capricious than the novelist; sometimes you can guess what he intends for an end; what fate has in store, never.  Gretchen’s letter did not begin as letters usually do.  It began with “I love you” and ended with the same sentence.  “In November my marriage will take place.  Do not come abroad.  I am growing strong now; if I should see you alas, what would become of that thin ice covering the heart of fire; we have nothing to return, you and I. I long to see you; I dare not tell you how much.  Who knows what the world holds hidden?  While we live there is always a perhaps.  Remember that I love you!”

“Perhaps,” I mused absently.

“Perhaps what?” asked Pembroke.

“What?” I had forgotten him.  “Oh, it was merely a slip of the tongue.”  I poked the matting with my cane.  “It is high noon; we had best hunt up a lunch.  I have an engagement with the American military attache at two, so you will have to take care of yourself till dinner.”

Let me tell you what happened in the military club that night.  I was waiting for Col.  J——­ of the Queen’s Light, who was to give me the plan of the fall maneuvers in Africa.  Pembroke was in the billiard room showing what he knew about caroms and brandy smashes to a trio of tanned Indian campaigners.  I was in the reading room perusing the evening papers.  All at once I became aware of a man standing before me.  He remained in that position so long that I glanced over the top of my paper.

It was Prince Ernst of Wortumborg.  He bowed.

“May I claim your attention for a moment?” he asked.

Had I been in any other place but the club I should have ignored him.  I possessed the liveliest hatred for the man.

“If you will be brief.”

“As brief as possible,” dropping into the nearest chair.  “It has become necessary to ask you a few questions.  The matter concerns me.”