first-class towns which had open spaces worthy of its magnificence. It
despised one or two night stands. The Cirque Rocambeau had a way of
imposing itself upon a town as an illusory permanent institution, a week
being its shortest and almost contemptuous sojourn. The Cirque Rocambeau
maintained the stateliness of the old world.

Now the Cirque Rocambeau fades out of this story almost as soon as it
enters it. But it affords the coincidence which enables this story to be
written. For if I had not known the Cirque Rocambeau, I should never
have won the confidence of Andrew Lackaday and I should have remained as
ignorant, as you are, at the present moment, of the vicissitudes of that
worthy man's career.

You see, we met as strangers at a country house towards the end of the war.
Chance turned the conversation to France, where he had lived most of his
life, to the France of former days, to my own early wanderings about
that delectable land, to my boastful accounts of my two or three months'
vagabondage with the Cirque Rocambeau. He jumped as if I had thrown a bomb
instead of a name at him. In fact the bomb would have startled him less.

"The Cirque Rocambeau?"

"Yes."

He looked at me narrowly. "What year was that?"

I told him.

"Lord Almighty," said he, with a gasp. "Lord Almighty!" He stared for a
long time in front of him without speaking. Then to my amazement he said