showing plainest when in reflective thought. At last, he smiled. Then he
lit another cigarette, took up the letter and the photograph, and put
them in the small safe standing behind an ornate screen in the
corner--not, however, without another look at the calmly beautiful face.

The roses he left lie on the table; the steel safe would not preserve
them in _statu quo_; moreover, he knew, or thought he knew, all that
they could convey. He swung the door shut; then swung it open, and
looked again at the picture--and for sometime--before he put it up and
gave the knob a twirl.

"I'm sure bewitched!" he remarked, going on to his bedroom. "It's not
difficult for me to understand the Duke of Lotzen. He was simply a
man--and men, at the best, are queer beggars. No woman ever understands
us--and no more do we understand women. So we're both quits on that
score, if we're not quite on some others." Then he raised his hands
helplessly, "Oh, Lord, the petticoats, the petticoats!"

Just then the telephone rang--noisily as befits two o'clock in the
morning.

"Who the devil wants me at such an hour?" he muttered.

The clang was repeated almost instantly and continued until he unhooked
the receiver.

"Well!" he said sharply.

"Is that Mr. Harleston?" asked a woman's voice. A particularly soft and
sweet and smiling voice, it was.