“Is she in Paris?” asked O’Neill.

“No, in Spain,” answered Regnault.  “At Ronda, in a great house on the edge of the hill, a house of small windows and strong doors.  She is religious, Lola is; she fears hell.  Let me see; she must be near to fifty now.  It is twenty years and more since I saw her.”

“But if I wrote,” began O’Neill again.

“She would not come for a letter,” persisted Regnault.  “What would you write?  ‘He is dying,’ you would say, ‘Poof!’ she would answer, ‘he has been dead this twenty years to me.’”

“Well, then, what do you suggest?”

Regnault opened his eyes and looked up sharply.  He stretched out one long slender hand in a sudden gesture of urgency.  His face, upon the moment, recovered its wonted vivacity.

“Go to her,” he said.  “Go to her, O’Neill; you are young and long-legged; you have the face of one to whom adventures are due.  She will receive you.  Speak to her; tell her—­tell her of this gloomy room and its booming echoes and the little white bed in the middle of it.  Make your voice warm, O’Neill, and tell her of all of it.  Then, perhaps, she will come.”

There was no mistaking his earnestness.  O’Neill stared at him in astonishment.  Regnault moistened his lips, breathing hard.

“Really,” said O’Neill, “I don’t quite know how to answer you, Regnault.”

Regnault put the empty phrase from him with a movement of impatience.

“Go to her,” he said again, and his brows creased in effort.  “Is it because she is religious that you hesitate!  You think I am an offence to her religion?  O’Neill, I will offer it no offence.  I have myself an instinct that way now.  It is true.  I have.”

“Wait,” said O’Neill.  He was thinking confusedly.  “You know you’re like a spoiled child, Regnault.  You’d die for a thing so long as some one denied it you.  Now, what strikes me is this.  Your wife ought to be with you, as a matter of decent usage and—­and all that.  But if you want her here just so that you can flog up the thrill of one of your old beastly adventures, I’ll not lift a finger to help you.  D’you see!”

Regnault nodded.  Buscarlet, standing behind the bed, was trembling like a man in an ague.

“I’ll go to Ronda, and do what I can,” said O’Neill, “so long as you’re playing fair.  But I’ve got to be sure of that, Regnault.”

Regnault nodded again.  “I see,” he answered.  “What shall I say to you?  Will you not trust me, O’Neill, in a question of taste?  Morals—­ I don’t say.  But taste—­come now!”

“You mean, you want to see your wife in ordinary affection and—­well, and because she is your wife?” demanded O’Neill.

“You put it very well,” replied Regnault placidly.  “Give me some paper and I will write you her name and address.  And, O’Neill, I have an idea!  I will give you, for your own, ‘The Dancer.’  It shall be my last joke.  After this, I am earnest.”