I was not going to say anything to Madrasia—I mean, as regarded the events of the night. Fortunately, she asked no questions—about the past, at any rate; her sole concern seemed to be about the immediate future. There was a waiter in the room, laying the table for breakfast, when she came in; she and I withdrew into the embrasure of the window, looking out on streets that had now grown busy.
"Have you seen him this morning?" she asked significantly. "No? Did you see him last night?"
"For a few minutes," I answered.
"Did he say what we're going to do to-day?" she inquired.
"Not a word!" said I. "Said nothing!"
"Not even whether we're going home or not—or anything?" she demanded. "No? But what are we here for?"
"I don't know," I replied. "Ask him!"
"Might as well ask the man on that monument!" she retorted, pointing out of the window. "I feel like a marionette!—with Jimmie pulling the strings just as he pleases."
"Do you mind?" I asked.
