"Hello, Ben!" said Jimmy, still with his strange smile. "Got around
at last, have you? Well, let's go. I don't know that it makes much
difference, now."

And then Ben Price acted rather strangely.

"Guess you're mistaken, Mr. Spencer," he said. "Don't believe I
recognize you. Your buggy's waiting for you, ain't it?"

And Ben Price turned and strolled down the street.




XI

CHERCHEZ LA FEMME


Robbins, reporter for the _Picayune_, and Dumars, of
_L'Abeille_--the old French newspaper that has buzzed for nearly a
century--were good friends, well proven by years of ups and downs
together. They were seated where they had a habit of meeting--in the
little, Creole-haunted café of Madame Tibault, in Dumaine Street.
If you know the place, you will experience a thrill of pleasure in
recalling it to mind. It is small and dark, with six little polished
tables, at which you may sit and drink the best coffee in New
Orleans, and concoctions of absinthe equal to Sazerac's best. Madame
Tibault, fat and indulgent, presides at the desk, and takes your