“We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions. On the way he confessed. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say. The next morning came a compact letter from her father.
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