I came back from this world of fanciful figures, of mysterious robberies, of attempted assassinations, to the world of every-day things.

It was Louis--the _maitre d'hotel,_ the man who had ordered my _Plat du Jour_ and selected my Moselle--who spoke of these things so calmly in my own sitting-room, with a menu card in his hand, and a morocco-bound wine list sticking out of his breast pocket.

I was not in any imaginary city but in London,--city of tragedies, indeed, but tragedies of a homelier sort.

It was not possible that such things could be happening here, in an atmosphere which, through familiarity, had become almost commonplace.

Was I to believe that Louis, my favorite _maitre d'hotel_, my fellow schemer in many luncheon and dinner parties, my authority upon vintages, my gastronomic good angel, was one of a band of conspirators, who played with life and death as though they had been the balls of a juggler?
Was I to believe that there existed even in this very hotel, which for years had been my home, the seeds of these real tragical happenings which sometimes, though only half disclosed, blaze out upon the world as a revelation of the great underground world of crime?
I found it almost impossible to take Louis seriously.