V + 

After that chill, stuffy lodge the night was like a kiss. The dark shapes of Masters’s Renault and Napier’s taxi faced each other, their dimmed lamps lighting only the darkness. The chauffeur of the Renault looked to be asleep at the wheel. I hoped Venice was asleep, too. The driver of the taxi was nowhere to be seen, and stealthily I was approaching the dark shape of the taxi, mentally communicating to Venice that it would be only decent of her to be asleep, when the taxi-driver emerged from the malodorous shape of the lavabo. “Elle dorme, je crois,” the fool shouted at the top of his voice, and I bolted into the capacious Renault. + 

“Sorry to wake you,” came the mutter of Conrad Masters from the open door. “Where are you staying?” + 

Through the front window I saw the door of the taxi close. Napier would tell Venice he had seen me, and she would be surprised I had not spoken with her. “You were asleep,” Napier would say, but she would still be surprised.⁠ ⁠… + 

“Look here,” Masters said persuasively, one foot on the footboard, “why not come to my place for a while? Come along, it won’t kill you. A nighthawk like you. My wife has a party of some sort. Dancing, bridge, Parisian-Americans.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Dancing, bridge, Parisian-Americans! The end of a perfect day.⁠ ⁠… + 

“It’s another form of septic poisoning,” I pleaded. “Take me to the Westminster, Masters, and let me sleep. And you’d better get a room there as well and spend the night in peace.⁠ ⁠…” + 

The taxi in front of us bumped and rattled away. Masters muttered wearily: “Well, I will probably have to take a hand if you don’t. Most of ’em dance, but I left three bridge maniacs stranded to come on here. They stay up to all hours, the blighters.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Smoothly the Renault picked its way among the pits and chasms of the fearful boulevards of outer Paris. “Their last chance of ever being mended,” Masters muttered, “went when the Germans lost the war.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“All right,” I said sulkily, “I’ll come. Bridge, dancing, Parisian-Americans.⁠ ⁠… What a monstrous life you lead, Masters. But what about that miracle?” + 

“Can’t tell,” he muttered. “Can’t tell. Seemed bucked up a bit, of course. Took notice, recognised him, and that’s something. But you can’t tell.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“She’ll live,” I said. + 

“I’m glad you’re so certain,” snapped the captain of men. “I’m so little certain that I put that young man on his honour to look round again tomorrow afternoon.” + 

“On his honour!” I said. “On his honour?” + 

“What’s the matter with his honour? Looks all right to me.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“But he’s going South in the morning!” + 

“He mustn’t go!” snapped Masters. “That’ll be your job. We must give her one more chance⁠ ⁠… one more piqûre. It’s essential that he shouldn’t go tomorrow. You must prevent him.” + 

“I’ll try,” I said. “But.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“But surely he won’t want to go!” + 

“Oh, he won’t want to go.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Masters stared at me thoughtfully. “Um,” he said. “Um.” + 

“Of course,” I said, “you never know.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Well,” said Masters, “now she’s seen him once she’ll expect to see him again. It’s only natural.” + 

“Of course,” I said. “Naturally.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Smoothly ran the Renault with the scarlet wheels. The black lion found in us no little Citroën, cowered before us, slunk back into the jungle of nameless boulevards. Montparnasse showed lights to hold us, faces in cafés, singing groups of young men, little flashing women with lots of hair like dyed haloes. Artists. Swiftly we fled through the darkness, the stillness, the deep shadows of the phantom fortress of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, away we went from the ancien régime, the haute noblesse, across the river to the nouveau régime, the noblesse, down the stately slope of the Avenue Hoche into the sweet valley of the Parc Monceau, where lived the dashing Mrs. Conrad Masters, with bridge, dancing, Parisian-Americans.⁠ ⁠… + 

“You can’t,” that man muttered, “expect her to be reasonable.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“No,” I said, “I suppose not.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Nice!” snapped Masters. “Good God, ‘nice’!” + 