I entered in the most natural way in the world and followed the maître d'hôtel up the path into the house.
Why did I do so? Was I fascinated by the danger? Hypnotised? Hardly that. I'd got too used to danger to act like a silly song-sparrow confronted by a blacksnake. My reason was one which any American can understand in a second, but which would be absolutely incomprehensible to many older and more subtle nations. I was out of patience. I wanted action, even in the smoke. I was sick of dodging about and pined for a showdown. My morning as a free and independent member of the upper class had soured me on stealth, and the middle of the Champs-Elysées had spoiled me for a niche in the wall of a back alley. I slipped my hand into the side pocket of my coat, cuddled the butt of my little automatic heavenly ticket-punch, and walked into that house a sort of living murder-machine. Thought I: "They'll think they've got mixed on their natural history and caught a hot-ended hornet instead of a harmless fly in their blooming net." Chu-Chu would come slipping over directly—to mend a lock or wipe the joint of a waterpipe—and there'd be some quick curtain work. Catch 'im alive-oh! would be the password, as fireworks were the last things on the programme; then deflate him without noise and put him away.
I followed the sleek rascal ahead, with the sparks fairly sizzling out of me; and when he stepped aside to usher me into the darkened little boudoir, which overlooked the garden in the rear, my eyes were boring through the portières, shining
