“Then, by Heaven, he knows his business!” cried Martin, with his reckless laugh.

There are three entrances to the Hotel de l’Europe, two beneath the great archway on the Faubourg, where the carriages pass through into the court-yard—­where Hermani was assassinated—­where the people carried in the bodies of those historic five, whose mutilated corpses were photographed and hawked all through eastern Europe.  The third is a side door, used more generally by habitues of the restaurant.  It was to this third door that Wanda drove the next morning.  She knew the porter there.  He was in those days a man with a history and Wanda was not ignorant of it.

“Miss Cahere—­the American lady?” she said.  And the porter gave her the number of Netty’s room.  He was too busy a man to offer to escort her thither.

Wanda mounted the stairs along the huge corridor.  She passed Netty’s room, and ascended to the second story.  All fell out as she had wished.  At the head of the second staircase there is a little glass-partitioned room, where the servants sit when they are unemployed.  In this room, reading a French newspaper, she found Paul Deulin’s servant, a well-trained person.  And a well-trained French servant is the best servant in the world.  He took it for granted that Wanda had come to see his master, and led the way to the spacious drawing-room occupied by Deulin, who always travelled en prince.

“I am given for my expenses more money than I can spend,” he said, in defence of his extravagant habits, “and the only people to whom I want to give it are those who will not accept it.”

Deulin was not in the room, but he came in almost as soon as Wanda had found a chair.  She was looking at a book, and did not catch the flash of surprise in his eyes.

“Did Jean show you in?” he said.

“Yes.”

“That is all right.  He will keep everybody else out.  And he will lie.  It would not do, you know, for you to be talked about.  We all have enemies, Wanda.  Even plain people have enemies.”

Wanda waited for him to ask her why she had come.

“Yes,” he said, glancing at her and drawing a chair up to the table near which she was sitting.  “Yes!  What is the matter?”

“An unfortunate incident,” answered Wanda, “that is all.”

“Good.  Life is an unfortunate incident if we come to that.  I hope I predicted it.  It is so consoling to have predicted misfortune when it comes.  Your father?”

“No.”

“Martin?”

“No.”

“Cartoner,” said Deulin, dropping his voice half a dozen tones, and leaning both elbows on the table in a final way, which dispensed with the necessity of reply.

“Allons.  What has Cartoner been doing?”

“He has found out something.”

“Oh, la! la!” exclaimed Deulin, in a whisper—­giving voice to that exclamation which, as the cultured reader knows, French people reserve for a really serious mishap.  “I should have thought he knew better.”