"Cocher? l'Hotel Saint Ange, Rue Saint Ange!" The voice of John Dampier, Nancy's three-weeks bridegroom, rang out strongly, joyously, on this the last evening of their honeymoon. And before the lightly hung open carriage had time to move, Dampier added something quickly, at which both he and the driver laughed in unison. Nancy crept nearer to her husband. It was tiresome that she knew so little French. "I'm telling the man we're not in any hurry, and that he can take us round by the Boulevards. I won't have you seeing Paris from an ugly angle the first time-darling!" "But Jack? It's nearly midnight! Surely there'll be nothing to see on the Boulevards now?" "Won't there? You wait and see-Paris never goes to sleep!" And then-Nancy remembered it long, long afterwards-something very odd and disconcerting happened in the big station yard of the Gare de Lyon. The horse stopped-stopped dead. If it hadn't been that the bridegroom's arm enclosed her slender, rounded waist, the bride might have been thrown out.