“I do not stay in Paris,” he replied, “save to breakfast.”

“Indeed; that is my case.  I am going on to Bale.”

“And I also,” he said, “and further yet.”

Then he turned his face to the window, and would say no more.  My speculations regarding him multiplied with his taciturnity.  I felt convinced that he was a man with a romance, and a desire to know its nature became strong in me.  We breakfasted apart at Paris, but I watched him into his compartment for Bale, and sprang in after him.  During the first part of our journey we slept; but, as we neared the Swiss frontier, a spirit of wakefulness took hold of us, and fitful sentences were exchanged.  My companion, it appeared, intended to rest but a single day at Bale.  He was bound for far-away Alpine regions, ordinarily visited by tourists during the summer months only, and, one would think, impassable at this season of the year.

“And you go alone?” I asked him.  “You will have no companions to join you?”

“I shall have guides,” he answered, and relapsed into meditative silence.

Presently I ventured another question:  “You go on business, perhaps—­ not on pleasure?”

He turned his melancholy eyes on mine.  “Do I look as if I were traveling for pleasure’s sake?” he asked gently.

I felt rebuked, and hastened to apologise.  “Pardon me; I ought not to have said that.  But you interest me greatly, and I wish, if possible, to be of service to you.  If you are going into Alpine districts on business and alone, at this time of the year—­”

There I hesitated and paused.  How could I tell him that he interested me so much as to make me long to know the romance which, I felt convinced, attached to his expedition?  Perhaps he perceived what was in my mind, for he questioned me in his turn.  “And you—­have you business in Bale?”

“Yes, and in other places.  My accent may have told you my nationality.  I travel in the interests of the American firm, Fletcher Bros., Roy, & Co., whose London house, no doubt, you know.  But I need remain only twenty-four hours in Bale.  Afterwards I go to Berne, then to Geneva.  I must, however, wait for letters from England after doing my business at Bale, and I shall have some days free.”

“How many?”

“From the 21st to the 26th.”

He was silent for a minute, meditating.  Then he took from his traveling-bag a porte-feuille, and from the porte-feuille a visiting-card, which he handed to me.

“That is my name,” he said briefly.

I took the hint, and returned the compliment in kind.  On his card I read: 

        Mr Charles Denis st Aubyn,
        Grosvenor Square, London.  St Aubyn’s Court, Shrewsbury.

And mine bore the legend: 

        Mr frank Roy,
        Merchants’ Club, W. C.