beyond that.  Sometimes, do you know, I stay at home in the evening, and I sit here quite alone, with the lights half on, and for hours together I smoke and watch these things—­the quiet, sure, patient smile of that Buddha, for example.  Think how long he has been smiling like that, and waiting!  Waiting for what?  There is something mysterious beyond all words in that smile of his, that fixed, crudely carved wooden smile—­no, I’ll be hanged if it’s crude!  It is beyond our modern art.  The dead men carved better than we do.  We couldn’t manage that with such simple means.  We can only reproduce what is before us.  We can’t carve questions—­mysteries—­everlasting riddles.”

Through the pale-blue, wreathing smoke of his cigarette Captain Stewart gazed down the room to where eternal Buddha stood and smiled eternally.  And from there the man’s eyes moved with slow enjoyment along the opposite wall over those who sat or stood there, over the panels of the ancient Rakan, over carved lotus, and gilt contorted dragon forever in pursuit of the holy pearl.  He drew a short breath which seemed to bespeak extreme contentment, the keenest height of pleasure, and he stirred a little where he sat and settled himself among the cushions.  Ste. Marie watched him, and the expression of the man’s face began to be oddly revolting.  It was the face of a voluptuary in the presence of his desire.  He was uncomfortable, and wished to say something to break the silence, but, as often occurs at such a time, he could think of nothing to say.  So there was a brief silence between them.  But presently Captain Stewart roused himself with an obvious effort.

“Here, this won’t do!” said he, in a tone of whimsical apology.  “This won’t do, you know.  I’m floating off on my hobby (and there’s a mixed metaphor that would do credit to your own Milesian blood!).  I’m boring you to extinction, and I don’t want to do that, for I’m anxious that you should come here again—­and often.  I should like to have you form the habit.  What was it I had in mind to ask you about?  Ah, yes!  The journey to Dinard and Deauville.  I am afraid it turned out to be fruitless or you would have let me know.”

“Entirely fruitless,” said Ste. Marie.

He went on to tell the elder man of his investigation, and of his certainty that no one resembling Arthur Benham had been at either of the two places.

“It’s no affair of mine, to be sure,” he said, “but I rather suspect that your agent was deceiving you—­pretending to have accomplished something by way of making you think he was busy.”

Ste. Marie was so sure the other would immediately disclaim this that he waited for the word, and gave a little smothered laugh when Captain Stewart said, promptly: