A night in the storm without attention and we have complications." Over his coffee, which he sipped clear with the appreciation of an epicure, the Baron, in his suave, inscrutable way, grew reminiscent.
He talked well, selecting, discarding, weighing his words with the fastidious precision of a jeweler setting precious stones.

Subtly the talk drifted to Houdania.
There was a mad king--Rodobald--upon the throne.

Doubtless the Baron's hostess had heard?
No?
Ah! So must the baffling twist of a man's brain complicate the destiny of a kingdom.

And Rodobald was hale at sixty-five and mad as the hare of March.

There had been much talk of it.