CHAPTER II


'Journeys end in lovers' meeting.' The phrase conjures a picture. The
court-yard of some inn, glowing ripe in the tints of the setting
sun--open doors--an ancient coach disgorging its passengers! This--or,
perhaps, some quay alive with sound and movement--cries of command in
varying tongues--crowded gangways--rigging massed against the sky--all
the paraphernalia of romance and travel. But the real journey--the
journey of adventure itself--is frequently another matter: often gray,
often loverless, often demanding from the secret soul of the adventurer
spirit and inspiration, lest the blood turn cold in sick dismay, and the
brain cloud under its weight of nostalgia.

Paris in the dawn of a wet day is a sorry sight; the Gare du Nord in the
hours of early morning is a place of infinite gloom. As the north
express thundered into its recesses, waking strange and hollow echoes,
the long sweep of the platform brought a shudder to more than one tired
mind. A string of sleepy porters--gray silhouettes against a gray
background--was the only sign of life. Colors there were none, lovers
there were none, Parisian joy of living there was not one vestige.

Paris! The murmur crept through the train, stirring the weariest to
mechanical action. Paris! Heads were thrust through the windows, wraps
and hand-bags passed out to the shadowy, mysterious porters who received
them in a silence born of the godless hour and the penetrating, chilling