“When did you ever ask me anything that I did not tell you?  You remember, for example, my giving you the material for your paper about the temple of the Vestals.”

“Ah, well, that was not a matter of much importance.  If I were to question you upon some intimate thing would you give me an answer, I wonder!  This new catacomb is a very intimate thing to me, and I should certainly expect some sign of confidence in return.”

“What you are driving at I cannot imagine,” said the Englishman, “but if you mean that you will answer my question about the catacomb if I answer any question which you may put to me I can assure you that I will certainly do so.”

“Well, then,” said Burger, leaning luxuriously back in his settee, and puffing a blue tree of cigar-smoke into the air, “tell me all about your relations with Miss Mary Saunderson.”

Kennedy sprang up in his chair and glared angrily at his impassive companion.

“What the devil do you mean?” he cried.  “What sort of a question is this?  You may mean it as a joke, but you never made a worse one.”

“No, I don’t mean it as a joke,” said Burger, simply.  “I am really rather interested in the details of the matter.  I don’t know much about the world and women and social life and that sort of thing, and such an incident has the fascination of the unknown for me.  I know you, and I knew her by sight—­I had even spoken to her once or twice.  I should very much like to hear from your own lips exactly what it was which occurred between you.”

 “I won’t tell you a word.”

“That’s all right.  It was only my whim to see if you would give up a secret as easily as you expected me to give up my secret of the new catacomb.  You wouldn’t, and I didn’t expect you to.  But why should you expect otherwise of me?  There’s Saint John’s clock striking ten.  It is quite time that I was going home.”

“No; wait a bit, Burger,” said Kennedy; “this is really a ridiculous caprice of yours to wish to know about an old love-affair which has burned out months ago.  You know we look upon a man who kisses and tells as the greatest coward and villain possible.”

“Certainly,” said the German, gathering up his basket of curiosities, “when he tells anything about a girl which is previously unknown he must be so.  But in this case, as you must be aware, it was a public matter which was the common talk of Rome, so that you are not really doing Miss Mary Saunderson any injury by discussing her case with me.  But still, I respect your scruples; and so good night!”

“Wait a bit, Burger,” said Kennedy, laying his hand upon the other’s arm; “I am very keen upon this catacomb business, and I can’t let it drop quite so easily.  Would you mind asking me something else in return—­something not quite so eccentric this time?”

“No, no; you have refused, and there is an end of it,” said Burger, with his basket on his arm.  “No doubt you are quite right not to answer, and no doubt I am quite right also—­and so again, my dear Kennedy, good night!”