sary falsehoods that I told and I rallied him unmercifully when he told me that he had made up his mind that I had gone in the track of Mme. de Mauban to Strelsau. The lady, it appeared, was back in Paris, but was living in great seclusion—a fact for which gossip found no difficulty in accounting. Did not all the world know of the treachery and death of Duke Michael? Nevertheless George bade Bertram Bertrand be of good cheer, "for," said he flippantly, "a live poet is better than a dead duke." Then he turned on me and asked:
"What have you been doing to your mustache?"
"To tell the truth," I answered, assuming a sly air, "a man now and then has reasons for wishing to alter his appearance. But it's coming on very well again."
"What? Then I wasn't so far out! If not the fair Antoinette, there was a charmer."
"There is always a charmer," said I sententiously.
But George would not be satisfied till he had wormed out of me (he took much pride in his in-
