He was dull, good-natured, and a little fat; she was a beautiful woman with extraordinary charm and a lithe, girlish figure of which she took infinite care; he was supposed to kick up his heels in a quiet way while she did the thing brilliantly and kept the wheels of American Colony gossip (busy enough, anyway) turning and spinning until they groaned in utter weariness.

What was there that Pussy Wilmott had not done or would not do if the impulse seized her?  This was a matter of tireless speculation in the ultra-chic salons through which this fascinating lady flitted, envied and censured.  She was known to be the daughter of a California millionaire who had left her a fortune, of which the last shred was long ago dispersed.  Before marrying Wilmott she had divorced two husbands, had traveled all over the world, had hunted tigers in India and canoed the breakers, native style, in Hawaii; she had lived like a cowboy on the Texas plains, where, it was said, she had worn men’s clothes; she could swim and shoot and swear and love; she was altogether selfish, altogether delightful, altogether impossible; in short, she was a law unto herself, and her brilliant personality so far overshadowed Addison that, although he had the money and most of the right in their frequent quarrels, no one ever spoke of him except as “Pussy Wilmott’s husband.”

In spite of her willfulness and caprices Mrs. Wilmott was full of generous impulses and loyal to her friends.  She was certainly not a snob, as witness the fact that she had openly snubbed a certain grand duke, not for his immoralities, which she declared afterwards were nobody’s business, but because of his insufferable stupidity.  She rather liked a sinner, but she couldn’t stand a fool!

Such was the information M. Paul had been able to gather from swift and special police sources when he presented himself at the Wilmott hotel, about luncheon time on Monday.  Addison was just starting with some friends for a run down to Fontainebleau in his new Panhard, and he listened impatiently to Coquenil’s explanation that he had come in regard to some English bank notes recently paid to Mr. Wilmott, and possibly clever forgeries.

“Really!” exclaimed Addison.

Coquenil hoped that Mr. Wilmott would give him the notes in question in exchange for genuine ones.  This would help the investigation.

“Of course, my dear sir,” said the American, “but I haven’t the notes, they were spent long ago.”

Coquenil was sorry to hear this—­he wondered if Mr. Wilmott could remember where the notes were spent.  After an intellectual effort Addison remembered that he had changed one into French money at Henry’s and had paid two or three to a shirt maker on the Rue de la Paix, and the rest—­he reflected again, and then said positively:  “Why, yes, I gave five or six of them, I think there were six, I’m sure there were, because—­” He stopped with a new idea.