"It isn't the first time you've vouched for me by this style.
Remember?"

"Well, you've earned as fair title to the name of Duchemin as I ever
did to that of Wertheimer."

But the smile was fading from the eyes of the man whom England
preferred to recognize as André Duchemin.

"But where on earth is one to go?" "Don't ask me," the Englishman
protested. "And above all, don't tell me. I don't want to know. Since
I've been on this job, I've learned to believe in telepathy and mind
reading and witchcraft and all manner of unholy rot. And I don't want
you to come to a sudden end through somebody's establishing illicit
intercourse with my subconscious mind."

He took his leave shortly after that; and Monsieur Duchemin settled
down in the chair which his guest had quitted to grapple with his
problem: where under Heaven to go?

After a wasted while, he picked up in abstraction the book which
Wertheimer had been reading--and wondered if, by any chance, he had
left it there on purpose, so strong seemed the hint. It was Stevenson's
'Travels with a Donkey.' Duchemin was familiar enough with the work,
and had no need to dip anew into its pages to know it offered one fair
solution to his quandary.

If--he assured himself--there were any place in Europe where one might
count on being reasonably secure from the solicitous attentions of the