THE WRONG MAN Selingman came out into the sunlit streets very much as a man who leaves a dark and shrouded room.

The shock of tragedy was still upon him.

There was a little choke in his throat as he mingled with the careless, pleasure-loving throng, mostly wending their way now towards the Rooms or the Terrace.

As he crossed the square towards the Hotel de Paris, his steps grew slower and slower.

He looked at the building half-fearfully.
Beautifully dressed women, men of every nationality, were passing in and out all the time.