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.

“I am Mr. Harleston,” he replied courteously—­the voice had done it.

“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Harleston!” the voice rippled.  “I suppose you are rather astonished at being called up at such an unseemly hour—­”

“Not at all—­I’m quite used to it, mademoiselle,” Harleston assured her.

“Now you’re sarcastic,” the voice replied again; “and, somehow, I don’t like sarcasm when I’m the cause of it.”

“You’re the cause of it but not the object of it,” he assured her.  “I’m quite sure I’ve never met you, and just as sure that I hope to meet you today.”

“Your hope, Mr. Harleston, is also mine.  But why, may I ask, do you call me mademoiselle?  I’m not French.”

“It’s the pleasantest way to address you until I know your name.”

“You might call me madame!”

“Perish the thought!  I refuse to imagine you married.”

“I might be a widow.”

“No.”

“Or even a divorcee.”

“And you might be a grandmother,” he added.

“Yes.”

“And doing the Maxixe at the Willard, this minute.”

“Yes!” she laughed.

“But you aren’t; and no more are you a widow or a divorcee.”

“All of which is charming of you, Mr. Harleston but it’s not exactly the business I have in hand.”

“Business at two o’clock in the morning!” he exclaimed.

He had tried to place the voice, and had failed; he was becoming convinced that he had not heard it before.

“What else would justify me in disturbing you?” she asked.

“Yourself, mademoiselle.  Let us continue the pleasant conversation and forget business until business hours.”

“When are your business hours, Mr. Harleston—­and where’s your office?”

“I have no office—­and my business hours depend on the business in hand.”