"H'm," mused Knowlton. "I wish we could search his baggage. Here, Ted, you'd better have this in case of emergency," and Knowlton took a revolver from his desk and offered it to me. I laughed.
"You are getting as melodramatic as old Prospero himself. Thank you just the same, but I never use them," and I handed it back.
"If he should take a dislike to you, look out, Ted. Let me know if it continues. Paranoia is not a disease to ignore lightly."
"Paranoia?" I gasped in surprise.
"Sure. He's got all the symptoms—big head and the rest."
Evening brought the explanation. It was not quite so bad as we had surmised. Upon entering my study I found a stout middle-aged woman seated there, fanning herself with a palm leaf fan. I was taken aback, I confess it, and at a loss for words. She saved me the trouble by saying, "Now, dearie, don't you worry about me. I'm waiting for Mr. de Fougère. I'm his wife."
"Yes?" I faltered. "Pray make yourself at home."
"You can trust me to do that, dearie, no matter where I am. I've slept twenty-five seasons in a tourist Pullman car. Home is where I find it, I always say."
"Twenty-five seasons in a Pullman?" My fatal curiosity was leading me into conversation in spite of myself.