The Flame Breathers

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In Paris they thought of him as a very queer duck, indeed.

Usually people came to Paris to have a good time, even when they come from Poland, as this man had come. Particularly when they come via the United States, which is a splendid place to make money, but where men tend to work too hard.

But this man, who had landed in Paris after a stay in America, had obviously not come to have a good time. It would seem that he had come to hunt a hole, crawl into it, and then pull it in after him.

He had been in the hotel for nearly three weeks, and only three or four times had he been out of his room at all. On those rare occasions, had he participated in the night life of the gay city? He had not. The concierge — the doorman-superintendent — of the hotel knew. He knew because he had been curious enough to follow this Polish guest.

The man had walked, just before dawn, along the Seine breathing in great gulps of fresh air. That was all. And as he walked he looked over his shoulder. So the concierge got a hint of it.

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