“Perfectly,” I agreed.

“As to the trains,” he continued contentedly, “there is but one a day.  It departs at two and a half hours, upon the Le Moreau route.  Monsieur will be wise to secure, before leaving Paris, a safe-conduct from the prefecture; for the village is, as one might say, on the edge of the zone of war.  With such a permit monsieur will find his visit charming; regrettable incidents will not occur; undesirable conjectures about monsieur’s identity will not be roused.  I should strongly advise that monsieur provide himself with such a credential, though it is not, perhaps, absolutely de rigueur.”

Back in my room at the Ritz, I consulted my watch.  It was a quarter of two; certainly time had marched apace.  Should I, like a sensible man, descend to the restaurant and enjoy a sample of the justly famous cuisine of the hotel?  Or should I throw all reason overboard and post off on—­what was it Dunny had called my mission—­a wild-goose chase?

I glanced at myself in the mirror and shook a disapproving head.  “You’re no knight-errant,” I told my impassive image.  “You’re too correct, too indifferent-looking altogether.  Better not get beyond your depth!” I decided for luncheon, followed by a leisurely knotting of the threads of my Parisian acquaintance.  Then, as if some malign hypnotist had projected it before me, I saw again a vision of that flashing, lean, gray car.

“I’m hanged if I don’t have a shot at this thing!”

The words seemed to pop out of my mouth entirely of their own accord.  By no conscious agency of my own, I found myself madly hurling collars, handkerchiefs, toilet articles, whatever I seemed likeliest to need in a brief journey, into a bag.  Lastly I realized that I was standing, hat in hand, overcoat across my arm, considering my revolver, and wondering whether taking it with me would be too stagy and absurd.

“No more so than all the rest of it,” I decided, shrugging.  Dropping the thing into my pocket, I made for the ascenseur.

“I shan’t be back to-night,” I informed the hall porter woodenly.  “Or perhaps to-morrow night.  But, of course, I’m keeping my room.”

With his wish for a charming trip to speed me, I left the Ritz, and luckily no vision was vouchsafed me of the condition in which I should return:  Two crutches, a bandaged head, an utterly disreputable aspect; my bedraggled state equaled—­and this I would maintain with swords and pistols if necessary—­that of any poilu of them all.

As I drove toward the station, various headlines stared at me from the kiosks.  “Franz von Blenheim Rumored on Way to France,” ran one of them.  Hang Franz.  I had had enough of him to last the rest of my life.  “Duke of Raincy-la-Tour Still Missing,” proclaimed another.  I knew something about him, too; but what?  Ah, to be sure, he was the Firefly of France, the hero of the Flying Corps, the young nobleman of whose suspected treason I had read in that extra on the ship.  In that damned extra, I amended, with natural feeling.  For it was like Rome; everything seemed to lead its way.