The End of Her Honeymoon

By

Mrs. Belloc Lowndes

Author of "The Uttermost Farthing, " "The Chink in the Armour, " etc. , etc. 

1913

CHAPTER I

"Cocher? l'Hôtel Saint Ange, Rue Saint Ange!"

The voice of John Dampier, Nancy's three-weeks bridegroom, rang outstrongly, joyously, on this the last evening of their honeymoon. And beforethe lightly hung open carriage had time to move, Dampier added somethingquickly, at which both he and the driver laughed in unison. 

Nancy crept nearer to her husband. It was tiresome that she knew so littleFrench. 

"I'm telling the man we're not in any hurry, and that he can take us roundby the Boulevards. I won't have you seeing Paris from an ugly angle thefirst time--darling!"

"But Jack? It's nearly midnight! Surely there'll be nothing to see on theBoulevards now?"

"Won't there? You wait and see--Paris never goes to sleep!"

And then--Nancy remembered it long, long afterwards--something very odd anddisconcerting happened in the big station yard of the Gare de Lyon. Thehorse stopped--stopped dead. If it hadn't been that the bridegroom's armenclosed her slender, rounded waist, the bride might have been thrown out. 

The cabman stood up in his seat and gave his horse a vicious blow acrossthe back. 

"Oh, Jack!" Nancy shrank and hid her face in her husband's arm. "Don't lethim do that! I can't bear it!"

Dampier shouted out something roughly, angrily, and the man jumped off thebox, and taking hold of the rein gave it a sharp pull. He led his unwillinghorse through the big iron gates, and then the little open carriage rolledon smoothly. 

How enchanting to be driving under the stars in the city which hails inevery artist--Jack Dampier was an artist--a beloved son!

In the clear June atmosphere, under the great arc-lamps which seemedsuspended in the mild lambent air, the branches of the trees lining theBoulevards showed brightly, delicately green; and the tints of the dressesworn by the women walking up and down outside the cafés and stillbrilliantly lighted shops mingled luminously, as on a magic palette. 

Nancy withdrew herself gently from her husband's arm. It seemed to her thatevery one in that merry, slowly moving crowd on either side must see thathe was holding her to him. She was a shy, sensitive little creature, thisthree-weeks-old bride, whose honeymoon was now about to merge into happyevery-day life. 

Dampier divined something of what she was feeling. He put out his hand andclasped hers. "Silly sweetheart, " he whispered. "All these merry, chattering people are far too full of themselves to be thinking of us!"

As she made no answer, bewildered, a little oppressed by the brilliance, the strangeness of everything about them, he added a little anxiously, "Darling, are you tired? Would you rather go straight to the hotel?"

But pressing closer to him, Nancy shook her head. "No, no, Jack! I'm not abit tired. It was you who were tired to-day, not I!"

"I didn't feel well in the train, 'tis true. But now that I'm in Paris Icould stay out all night! I suppose you've never read George Moore'sdescription of this very drive we're taking, little girl?"

And again Nancy shook her head, and smiled in the darkness. In the worldwhere she had lived her short life, in the comfortable, unimaginative worldin which Nancy Tremain, the delightfully pretty, fairly well-dowered, orphan, had drifted about since she had been "grown-up, " no one had everheard of George Moore. 

Strange, even in some ways amazing, their marriage--hers and JackDampier's--had been! He, the clever, devil-may-care artist, unconventionalin all his ways, very much a Bohemian, knowing little of his nativecountry, England, for he had lived all his youth and working life inFrance--and she, in everything, save an instinctive love of beauty, which, oddly yet naturally enough, only betrayed itself in her dress, theexact opposite!

A commission from an English country gentleman who had fancied a portraitshown by Dampier in the Salon, had brought the artist, rather reluctantly, across the Channel, and an accident--sometimes it made them both shiver torealise how slight an accident--had led to their first anddecisive meeting. 

Nancy Tremain had been brought over to tea, one cold, snowy afternoon, atthe house where Dampier was painting. She had been dressed all in grey, andthe graceful velvet gown and furry cap-like toque had made her look, in hiseyes, like an exquisite Eighteenth Century pastel. 

One glance--so Dampier had often since assured her and she never grew tiredof hearing it--had been enough. They had scarcely spoken the one to theother, but he had found out her name, and, writing, cajoled her into seeinghim again. Very soon he had captured her in the good old way, as women--orso men like to think--prefer to be wooed, by right of conquest. 

There had been no one to say them nay, no one to comment unkindly over sostrange and sudden a betrothal. On the contrary, Nancy's considerablecircle of acquaintances had smilingly approved. 

All the world loves a masterful lover, and Nancy Tremain was far toopretty, far too singular and charming, to become engaged in the course ofnature to some commonplace young man. This big, ugly, clever, amusingartist was just the contrast which was needed for romance. 

And he seemed by his own account to be making a very good income, too! Yet, artists being such eccentric, extravagant fellows, doubtless Nancy's modestlittle fortune would come in useful--so those about them argued carelessly. 

Then one of her acquaintances, a thought more good-natured than the rest, arranged that lovely, happy Nancy should be married from a pleasant countryhouse, in a dear little country church. Braving superstition, the weddingtook place in the last week of May, and bride and bridegroom had gone toItaly--though, to be sure, it was rather late for Italy--for threehappy weeks. 

Now they were about to settle down in Dampier's Paris studio. 

Unluckily it was an Exhibition Year, one of those years, that is, which, hateful as they may be to your true Parisian, pour steady streams of goldinto the pockets of fortunate hotel and shop keepers, and which bring agreat many foreigners to Paris who otherwise might never have come. Quite anumber of such comfortable English folk were now looking forward to goingand seeing Nancy Dampier in her new home--of which the very address wasquaint and unusual, for Dampier's studio was situated Impasse des Nonnes. 

They were now speeding under and across the vast embracing shadow of theOpera House. And again Dampier slipped his arm round his young wife. Itseemed to this happy man as if Paris to-night had put on her gala dress towelcome him, devout lover and maker of beauty, back to her bosom. 

"Isn't it pleasant to think, " he whispered, "that Paris is the morebeautiful because you now are in it and of it, Nancy?"

And Nancy smiled, well pleased at the fantastic compliment. 

She pressed more closely to him. 

"I wish--I wish--" and then she stopped, for she was unselfish, shy ofexpressing her wishes, but that made Dampier ever the more eager to hear, and, if possible, to gratify them. 

"What is it that you wish, dear heart?" he asked. 

"I wish, Jack, that we were going straight home to the studio now--insteadof to an hotel. "

"We'll get in very soon, " he answered quickly. "Believe me, darling, youwouldn't like going in before everything is ready for you. Mère Bideau hasher good points, but she could never make the place look as I want it tolook when you first see it. I'll get up early to-morrow morning and go andsee to it all. I wouldn't for the world you saw our home as it must looknow--the poor little living rooms dusty and shabby, and our boxes sittingsadly in the middle of the studio itself!"

They had sent their heavy luggage on from England, and for the honeymoonNancy had contented herself with one modest little trunk, while Dampier hadtaken the large portmanteau which had been the useful wedding present ofthe new friend and patron in whose house he had first seen his wife. 

Swiftly they shot through the triple arch which leads from the Rue deRivoli to the Carousel. How splendid and solitary was the vast dimly-litspace. "I like this, " whispered Nancy dreamily, gazing up at the dark, star-powdered sky. 

And then Dampier turned and caught her, this time unresisting, yieldingjoyfully, to his breast. "Nancy?" he murmured thickly. "Nancy? I'm afraid!"

"Afraid?" she repeated wonderingly. 

"Yes, horribly afraid! Pray, my pure angel, pray that the gods may indulgetheir cruel sport elsewhere. I haven't always been happy, Nancy. "

And she clung to him, full of vague, unsubstantial fears. "Don't talk likethat, " she murmured. "It--it isn't right to make fun of such things. "

"Make fun? Good God!" was all he said. 

And then his mood changed. They were now being shaken across the huge, uneven paving stones of the quays, and so on to a bridge. "I never reallyfeel at home in Paris till I've crossed the Seine, " he cried joyously. "Cheer up, darling, we shall soon be at the Hôtel Saint Ange!"

"Have you ever stayed in the Hôtel Saint Ange?" she said, with a touch ofcuriosity in her voice. 

"I used to know a fellow who lived there, " he said carelessly. "But whatmade me pick it out was the fact that it's such a queer, beautiful oldhouse, and with a delightful garden. Also we shall meet no English there. "

"Don't you like English people?" she asked, a little protestingly. 

And Dampier laughed. "I like them everywhere but in Paris, " he said: andthen, "But you won't be quite lonely, little lady, for a good manyAmericans go to the Hôtel Saint Ange. And for such a funny reason--"

"What reason?"

"It was there that Edgar Allan Poe stayed when he was in Paris. "

Their carriage was now engaged in threading narrow, shadowed thoroughfareswhich wound through what might have been a city of the dead. From midnighttill cock-crow old-world Paris sleeps, and the windows of the high houseson either side of the deserted streets through which they were now drivingwere all closely shuttered. 

"Here we have the ceremonious, the well-bred, the tactful Paris of otherdays, " exclaimed Dampier whimsically. "This Paris understands without anywords that what we now want is to be quiet, and by ourselves, little girl!"

A gas lamp, burning feebly in a corner wine shop, lit up his exultant facefor a flashing moment. 

"You don't look well, Jack, " Nancy said suddenly. "It was awfully hot inLyons this morning--"

"We stayed just a thought too long in that carpet warehouse, " he saidgaily, --"And then--and then that prayer carpet, which might have belongedto Ali Baba of Ispahan, has made me feel ill with envy ever since! But joy!Here we are at last!"

After emerging into a square of which one side was formed by an old Gothicchurch, they had engaged in a dark and narrow street the further end ofwhich was bastioned by one of the flying buttresses of the church they hadjust passed. 

The cab drew up with a jerk. "C'est ici, monsieur. "

The man had drawn up before a broad oak porte cochère which, sunk far backinto a thick wall, was now inhospitably shut. 

"They go to bed betimes this side of the river!" exclaimed Dampierruefully. 

Nancy felt a little troubled. The hotel people knew they were coming, forJack had written from Marseilles: it was odd no one had sat up for them. 

But their driver gave the wrought-iron bell-handle a mighty pull, and afterwhat seemed to the two travellers a very long pause the great doors swungslowly back on their hinges, while a hearty voice called out, "C'est vous, Monsieur Gerald? C'est vous, mademoiselle?"

And Dampier shouted back in French, "It's Mr. And Mrs. Dampier. Surely youexpect us? I wrote from Marseilles three days ago!"

He helped his wife out of the cab, and they passed through into the broad, vaulted passage which connected the street with the courtyard of the hotel. By the dim light afforded by an old-fashioned hanging lamp Nancy Dampiersaw that three people had answered the bell; they were a middle-aged man(evidently mine host), his stout better half, and a youth who rubbed hiseyes as if sleepy, and who stared at the newcomers with a dull, ruminating stare. 

As is generally the case in a French hotel, it was Madame who took command. She poured forth a torrent of eager, excited words, and at last Dampierturned to his wife:--"They got my letter, but of course had no address towhich they could answer, and--and it's rather a bore, darling--but theydon't seem to have any rooms vacant. "

But even as he spoke the fat, cheerful-looking Frenchwoman put her hand onthe young Englishman's arm. She had seen the smart-looking box of thebride, the handsome crocodile skin bag of the bridegroom, and again sheburst forth, uttering again and again the word "arranger. "

Dampier turned once more, this time much relieved, to his wife: "MadamePoulain (that's her name, it seems) thinks she can manage to put us up allright to-night, if we don't mind two very small rooms--unluckily not on thesame floor. But some people are going away to-morrow and then she'll havefree some charming rooms overlooking the garden. "

He took a ten-franc piece out of his pocket as he spoke, and handed it tothe gratified cabman:--"It doesn't seem too much for a drive throughfairyland"--he said aside to his wife. 

And Nancy nodded contentedly. It pleased her that her Jack should begenerous--the more that she had found out in the last three weeks that ifgenerous, he was by no means a spendthrift. He had longed to buy a coupleof Persian prayer carpets in that queer little warehouse where a Frenchfriend of his had taken them in Lyons, but he had resisted thetemptation--nobly. 

Meanwhile Madame Poulain was talking, talking, talking--emphasising all shesaid with quick, eager gestures. 

"They are going to put you in their own daughter's room, darling. She'sluckily away just now. So I think you will be all right. I, it seems, mustput up with a garret!"

"Oh, must you be far away from me?" she asked a little plaintively. 

"Only for to-night, only till to-morrow, sweetheart. "

And then they all began going up a winding staircase which started flushfrom the wall to the left. 

First came Madame Poulain, carrying a candle, then Monsieur Poulain withhis new English clients, and, last of all, the loutish lad carrying Nancy'strunk. They had but a little way to go up the shallow slippery stairs, forwhen they reached the first tiny landing Madame Poulain opened a curious, narrow slit of a door which seemed, when shut, to be actually part of thefinely panelled walls. 

"Here's my daughter's room, " said the landlady proudly. "It is verycomfortable and charming. "

"What an extraordinary little room!" whispered Nancy. 

And Dampier, looking round him with a good deal of curiosity, agreed. 

In the days when the Hôtel Saint Ange belonged to the great soldier whosename it still bears, this strange little apartment had surely been, so theEnglish artist told himself, a powdering closet. Even now the only outsidelight and air came from a small square window which had evidently onlyrecently been cut through the thick wall. In front of this aperturefluttered a bright pink curtain. 

Covering three of the walls as well as the low ceiling, was a papersimulating white satin powdered with rose-buds, and the bed, draped withvirginal muslin curtains, was a child's rather than a woman's bed. 

"What's that?" asked Dampier suddenly. "A cupboard?"

He had noticed that wide double doors, painted in the pale brownish greycalled grisaille, formed the further side of the tiny apartment. 

Madame Poulain, turning a key, revealed a large roomy space now fitted upas a cupboard. "It's a way through into our bedroom, monsieur, " she saidsmiling. "We could not of course allow our daughter to be far fromourselves. "

And Dampier nodded. He knew the ways of French people and sympathised withthose ways. 

He stepped up into the cupboard, curious to see if this too had been apowdering closet, and if that were so if the old panelling andornamentation had remained in their original condition. 

Thus for a moment was Dampier concealed from those in the room. And duringthat moment there came the sound of footsteps on the staircase, followed bythe sudden appearance on the landing outside the open door of the curiouslittle apartment of two tall figures--a girl in a lace opera cloak, and ayoung man in evening dress. 

Nancy Dampier, gazing at them, a little surprised at the abrupt apparition, told herself that they must be brother and sister, so striking was theirresemblance to one another. 

"We found the porte cochère open, Madame Poulain, so we just came straightin. Good night!"

The young lady spoke excellent French, but as she swept on up the staircaseout of sight there came a quick low interchange of English words betweenherself and the man with her. 

"Daisy? Did you notice that beautiful young woman? A regular stunner! Shemust be that daughter the Poulains are always talking about. "

And then "Daisy's" answer floated down. "Yes, I noticed her--she iscertainly very pretty. But do be careful, Gerald, I expect she knows alittle English--"

Dampier stepped down out of the cupboard. 

"That American cub ought to be put in his place!" he muttered heatedly. 

Nancy turned her face away to hide a little smile. Jack was so funny! Hedelighted in her beauty--he was always telling her so, and yet it annoyedhim if other people thought her pretty too. This young American had lookedat her quite pleasantly, quite respectfully; he hadn't meant to beoffensive--of that Nancy felt sure. 

"I suppose you have a good many Americans this year?" went on Dampier inFrench, turning to Monsieur Poulain. 

"No, monsieur, no. Our clientèle is mostly French. We have only this younglady, her brother, and their father, monsieur. The father is a Senator inhis own country--Senator Burton. They are very charming people, and havestayed with us often before. All our other guests are French. We have neverhad such a splendid season: and all because of the Exhibition!"

"I'm glad you are doing well, " said Dampier courteously. "But for mypart"--he shrugged his shoulders--"I'm too much of a Parisian to like theExhibition. "

Then he turned to Nancy: "Well, you'll be quite safe, my darling. Monsieurand Madame Poulain are only just through here, so you needn't feel lonely. "

And then there came a chorus of bonsoirs from host, from hostess, and fromthe lad who now stood waiting with the Englishman's large portmanteauhitched up on his shoulder. 

Dampier bent and kissed his wife very tenderly: then he followed MonsieurPoulain and the latter's nephew up the stairs, while Madame Poulain stayedbehind and helped Mrs. Dampier to unpack the few things she required forthe night. 

And Nancy, though she felt just a little bewildered to find herself alonein this strange house, was yet amused and cheered by the older woman'slively chatter, and that although she only understood one word in ten. 

Madame Poulain talked of her daughter, Virginie, now in the country wellaway from the holiday crowds brought by the Exhibition, and also of hernephew, Jules, the lad who had carried up the luggage, and who knew--soMadame Poulain went to some pains to make Nancy understand--alittle English. 

Late though it was, the worthy woman did not seem in any hurry to go away, but at last came the kindly words which even Nancy, slight as was herknowledge of French, understood: "Bonsoir, madame. Dormez bien. "

CHAPTER II

Nancy Dampier sat up in bed. 

Through the curtain covering the square aperture in the wall which did dutyfor a window the strong morning light streamed in, casting a pink glow overthe peculiar little room. 

She drew the pearl-circled watch, which had been one of Jack's first giftsto her, from under the big, square pillow. 

It was already half-past nine. How very tiresome and strange that sheshould have overslept herself on this, her first morning in Paris! Andyet--and yet not so very strange after all, for her night had beencuriously and disagreeably disturbed. 

At first she had slept the deep, dreamless sleep of happy youth, and then, in a moment, she had suddenly sat up, wide awake. 

The murmur of talking had roused her--of eager, low talking in the roomwhich lay the other side of the deep cupboard. When the murmur had at lastceased she had dozed off, only to be waked again by the sound of the portecochère swinging back on its huge hinges. 

It was evidently quite true--as Jack had said--that Paris never goes tosleep. 

Jack had declared he would get up and go over to the studio early, so therewas nothing for it but to get up, and wait patiently till he came back. Nancy knew that her husband wouldn't like her to venture out into thestreets alone. He was extraordinarily careful of her--careful andthoughtful for her comfort. 

What an angel he was--her great strong, clever Jack!

A girl who goes about by herself as much as Nancy Tremain had gone aboutalone during the three years which had elapsed betwixt her leaving schooland her marriage, obtains a considerable knowledge of men, and not of thenicest kind of men. But Jack was an angel--she repeated the rather absurdlyincongruous word to herself with a very tender feeling in her heart. Healways treated her not only as if she were something beautiful and rare, but something fragile, to be respected as well as adored. .. . 

He had left her so little during the last three weeks that she had neverhad time to think about him as she was thinking of him now; "counting upher mercies, " as an old-fashioned lady she had known as a child was wont toadvise those about her to do. 

At last she looked round her for a bell. No, there was nothing of the sortin the tiny room. But Nancy Dampier had already learned to do without allsorts of things which she had regarded as absolute necessities of life whenshe was Nancy Tremain. In some of the humbler Italian inns in which she andJack had been so happy, the people had never even heard of a bell!

She jumped out of bed, put on her pretty, pale blue dressing-gown--it was afancy of Jack's that she should wear a great deal of pale blue andwhite--and then she opened the door a little way. 

"Madame!" she called out gaily. "Madame Poulain?" and wondered whether herFrench would run to the words "hot water"--yes, she thought it would. "Eauchaude"--that was hot water. 

But there came no answering cry, and again, this time rather impatiently, she called out, "Madame Poulain?"

And then the shuffling sounds of heavy footsteps made Nancy shoot back fromthe open door. 

"Yuss?" muttered a hoarse voice. 

This surely must be the loutish-looking youth who, so Nancy suddenlyremembered, knew a little English. 

"I want some hot water, " she called out through the door. "And will youplease ask your aunt to come here for a moment?"

"Yuss, " he said, in that queer hoarse voice, and shuffled downstairs again. And there followed, floating up from below, one of those quick, gabblinginterchanges of French words which Nancy, try as she might, could notunderstand. 

She got into bed again. Perhaps after all it would be better to allow themto bring up her "little breakfast" in the foreign fashion. She would stillbe in plenty of time for Jack. Once in the studio he would be in no hurry, or so she feared, to come back--especially if on his way out he had openedher door and seen how soundly she was sleeping. 

She waited some time, and then, as no one came, grew what she so seldomwas, impatient and annoyed. What an odd hotel, and what dilatory, disagreeable ways! But just as she was thinking of getting up again sheheard a hesitating knock. 

It was Madame Poulain, and suddenly Nancy--though unobservant as is youth, and especially happy youth--noticed that mine hostess looked far less wellin the daytime than by candle-light. 

Madame Poulain's stout, sallow face was pale, her cheeks puffy; there wererings round the black eyes which had sparkled so brightly the night before. But then she too must have had a disturbed night. 

In her halting French Mrs. Dampier explained that she would like coffee androlls, and then some hot water. 

"C'est bien, mademoiselle!"

And Nancy blushed rosy-red. "Mademoiselle?" How odd to hear herself soaddressed! But Madame Poulain did not give her time to say anything, evenif she had wished to do so, for, before Mrs. Dampier could speak again, thehotel-keeper had shut the door and gone downstairs. 

And then, after a long, long wait, far longer than Nancy had ever been madeto wait in any of the foreign hotels in which she and her husband hadstayed during the last three weeks, Madame Poulain reappeared, bearing atray in her large, powerful hands. 

She put the tray down on the bed, and she was already making her wayquickly, silently to the door, when Nancy called out urgently, "Madame?Madame Poulain! Has my husband gone out!"

And then she checked herself, and tried to convey the same question in herdifficult French--"Mon mari?" she said haltingly. "Mon mari?"

But Madame Poulain only shook her head, and hurried out of the room, leaving the young Englishwoman oddly discomfited and surprised. 

It was evidently true what Jack had said--that tiresome Exhibition hadturned everything in Paris, especially the hotels, topsy-turvy. MadamePoulain was cross and tired, run off her feet, maybe; her manner, too, quite different now from what it had been the night before. 

Nancy Dampier got up and dressed. She put on a pale blue linen gown whichJack admired, and a blue straw hat trimmed with grey wings which Jack saidmade her look like Mercury. 

She told herself that there could be no reason why she shouldn't ventureout of her room and go downstairs, where there must surely be some kind ofpublic sitting-room. 

Suddenly remembering the young American's interchange of words with hissister, she wondered, smiling to herself, if she would ever see them again. How cross the young man's idle words had made Jack! Dear, jealous Jack, whohated it so when people stared at her as foreigners have a trick ofstaring. It made Nancy happy to know that people thought her pretty, naybeautiful, for it would have been dreadful for Jack, an artist, to marry anugly woman. .. . 

Locking her box she went out onto the shallow staircase, down the few stepswhich led straight under the big arch of the porte cochère. It was thrownhospitably open on to the narrow street now full of movement, colour, andsound. But in vivid contrast to the moving panorama presented by the busy, lane-like thoroughfare outside, was the spacious, stone-paved courtyard ofthe hotel, made gay with orange trees in huge green tubs. Almost oppositethe porte cochère was another arch through which she could see a glimpse ofthe cool, shady garden Jack remembered. 

Yes, it was a strangely picturesque and charming old house, this HôtelSaint Ange; but even so Nancy felt a little lost, a little strange, standing there under the porte cochère. Then she saw that painted up on aglass door just opposite the stairs leading to her room was the word"Bureau": it was doubtless there that Jack had left word when he wouldbe back. 

She went across and opened the door, but to her surprise there was no onein the little office; she hadn't, however, long to wait, for MadamePoulain's nephew suddenly appeared from the courtyard. 

He had on an apron; there was a broom in his hand, and as he came towardsher, walking very, very slowly, there came over Nancy Dampier, she couldnot have told you why, a touch of repulsion from the slovenly youth. 

"I wish to know, " she said, "whether my husband left any message for me?"

But the young man shook his head. He shuffled first on one foot and then onthe other, looking miserably awkward. It was plain that he did not knowmore than a word or two of English. 

"I am sure, " she said, speaking slowly and very distinctly, "that myhusband left some kind of message with your uncle or aunt. Will you pleaseask one of them to speak to me?"

He nodded. "Si, mademoiselle" and walked quickly away, back into thecourtyard. 

"Mademoiselle" again! What an extraordinary hotel, and what bad mannersthese people had! And yet again and again Jack had compared English andFrench hotels--always to the disadvantage of the former. 

Long minutes went by, and Nancy began to feel vexed and angry. Then therefell on her listening ears a phrase uttered very clearly in MadamePoulain's resonant voice: "C'est ton tour maintenant! Vas-y, mon ami!"

And before she had time to try and puzzle out the sense of the words, shesaw Monsieur Poulain's portly figure emerge from the left side of thecourtyard, and then--when he caught sight of the slim, blue-clad figurestanding under his porte cochère--beat a hasty retreat. 

Nancy's sense of discomfort and indignation grew. What did these peoplemean by treating her like this? She longed with a painful, almost a sicklonging for her husband's return. It must be very nearly eleven o'clock. Why did he stay away so long?

A painful, choking feeling--one she had very, very seldom experiencedduring the course of her short, prosperous life, came into her throat. 

Angrily she dashed away two tears from her eyes. 

This was a horrid hotel! The Poulains were hateful people! Jack had made amistake--how could he have brought her to such a place? She would tell himwhen he came back that he must take her away now, at once, to someordinary, nice hotel, where the people knew English, and where they treatedtheir guests with ordinary civility. 

And then there shot through Nancy Dampier a feeling of quick relief, for, walking across the courtyard, evidently on their way out, came apleasant-looking elderly gentleman, accompanied by the girl whom Nancy hadseen for a brief moment standing on the landing close to her bedroom doorthe night before. 

These were English people? No, American of course! But that was quite asgood, for they, thank heaven! spoke English. She could ask them to be herinterpreters with those extraordinary Poulains. Jack wouldn't mind herdoing that. Why, he might have left quite an important message for her!

She took a step forward, and the strangers stopped. The oldgentleman--Nancy called him in her own mind an old gentleman, thoughSenator Burton was by no means old in his own estimation or in that of hiscontemporaries--smiled a very pleasant, genial smile. 

Nancy Dampier made a charming vision as she stood under the arch of theporte cochère, her slender, blue-clad figure silhouetted against the darkbackground by the street outside, and the colour coming and going inher face. 

"May I speak to you a moment?" she said shyly. 

"Why certainly. "

The American took off his hat, and stood looking down at her kindly. "Myname is Burton, Senator Burton, at your service! What can I do for you?". 

The simple little question brought back all Nancy's usual happy confidence. How silly she had been just now to feel so distressed. 

"I'm Mrs. Dampier, and I can't make the hotel people understand what Isay, " she explained. "I mean Monsieur and Madame Poulain--and the nephew--Ithink his name is Jules--though he is supposed to speak English, is sovery stupid. "

"Yes, indeed he is!" chimed in the girl whom her brother had called"Daisy. " "I've long ago given up trying to make that boy understandanything, even in French. But they do work him most awfully hard, you know;they have women in each day to help with the cleaning, but that poor laddoes everything else--everything, that is, that the Poulains don't dothemselves. "

"What is it that you can't make them understand?" asked Senator Burtonindulgently. "Tell us what it is you want to ask them?"

"I only wish to know at what time my husband went out, and whether he leftany message for me, " answered Nancy rather shamefacedly. "You see the hotelis so full that they put us on different floors, and I haven't seen himthis morning. "

"I'll find that out for you at once. I expect Madame Poulain is in herkitchen just now. "

The Senator turned and went back into the courtyard, leaving his daughterand the young Englishwoman alone together. 

"The Poulains seem such odd, queer people, " said Nancy hesitatingly. 

"D'you think so? We've always found them all right, " said the girl, smiling. "Of course they're dreadfully busy just now because of theExhibition. The hotel is full of French people, and they give MadamePoulain a great deal of trouble. But she doesn't grudge it, for she and herhusband are simply coining money! They're determined that their daughtershall have a splendid dowry!" She waited a moment, and then repeated, "Oh, yes, the Poulains are very good sort of people. They're very kindly andgood-natured. "

To this remark Nancy made no answer. She thought the Poulains both rude anddisagreeable, but she had no wish to speak ill of them to this nice girl. How lucky it was that these kind Americans had come to her rescue! Thoughstill feeling indignant and uncomfortable with regard to the way in whichshe had been treated by the hotel-keeper and his wife, she felt quite happyagain now. 

Senator Burton was away for what seemed, not only to Mrs. Dampier, but alsoto his daughter, a considerable time. But at last they saw him comingslowly towards them. His eyes were bent on the ground; he seemed to bethinking, deeply. 

Nancy Dampier took a step forward. "Well?" she said eagerly, and then alittle shyly she uttered his name, "Well, Mr. Burton? What do they say? Didmy husband leave any message?"

"No, he doesn't seem to have done that. " And then the Senator looked downsearchingly into the young Englishwoman's face. It was a very lovely face, and just now the look of appeal, of surprise, in the blue eyes added atouch of pathetic charm. He thought of the old expression, "Beauty indistress. "

His daughter broke in: "Why, Mrs. Dampier, do come upstairs and wait in oursitting-room, " she said cordially. "I'll come with you, for we were onlygoing out for a little stroll, weren't we, father?"

Nancy Dampier hesitated. She did not notice that the American Senatoromitted to endorse his daughter's invitation; she hesitated for a verydifferent reason: "You're very kind; but if I do that I shall have to tellMadame Poulain, for it would give my husband a dreadful fright if he camein and found I had left my room and disappeared"--she blushed and smiledvery prettily. 

And again Senator Burton looked searchingly down into the lovely, flushedlittle face; but the deep-blue, guileless-looking eyes met his questioninggaze very frankly. He said slowly, "Very well, I will go and tell MadamePoulain that you will be waiting up in our sitting-room, Mrs. --ah--Dampier. "

He went out across the courtyard again, and once more he seemed, at anyrate to his daughter, to stay away longer than was needed for the deliveryof so simple a message. 

Growing impatient, Miss Burton took Nancy Dampier across the sunlitcourtyard to the wide old oak staircase, the escalier d'honneur, as it wasstill called in the hotel, down which the Marquis de Saint Ange hadclattered when starting for Fontenoy. 

When they were half-way up the Senator joined them, and a few moments laterwhen they had reached the second landing, he put a key in the lock of afinely carved door, then he stood back, courteously, to allow hisdaughter's guest to walk through into the small lobby which led to thedelightful suite of rooms which the Burtons always occupied during theirfrequent visits to Paris. 

Nancy uttered an exclamation of delight as she passed through into thehigh-pitched, stately salon, whose windows overlooked one of those leafygardens which are still the pride of old Paris. "This is delightful!" sheexclaimed. "Who would ever have thought that they had such rooms as this inthe Hôtel Saint Ange!"

"There are several of these suites, " said Daisy Burton pleasantly. "Infact, a good many French provincial people come up here, year after year, for the winter. "

While Mrs. Dampier and his daughter were exchanging these few words theSenator remained silent. Then--"Is your brother gone out?" hesaid abruptly. 

"Yes, father. He went out about half an hour ago. But he said he'd be backin ample time to take us out to luncheon. He thought we might like to go toFoyot's to-day. "

"So we will. Daisy, my dear--?" He stopped short, and his daughter lookedat him, surprised. 

"Yes, father?"

"I'm afraid I must ask you to leave me with this young lady for a fewmoments. I have something to say to her which I think it would be as wellthat I should say alone. "

Nancy got up from the chair on which she had already seated herself, andfear flashed into her face. "What is it?" she cried apprehensively. "You'renot going to tell me that anything's happened to Jack!"

"No, no, " said the Senator quickly, but even as he uttered the two short, reassuring little words he averted his eyes from Mrs. Dampier's questioninganxious eyes. 

His daughter left the room. 

"What is it?" said Nancy again, trying to smile. "What is it, Mr. Burton?"

And then the Senator, motioning her to a chair, sat down too. 

"The Poulains, " he said gravely--he was telling himself that he had nevercome across so accomplished an actress as this young Englishwoman wasproving herself to be--"the Poulains, " he repeated very distinctly, "declare that you arrived here last night alone. They say that they did notknow, as a matter of fact, that you were married. You do not seem to haveeven given them your name. "

Nancy stared at him for a moment. Then, "There must be some extraordinarymistake, " she said quietly. "The Poulains must have thought you meantsomeone else. My husband and I arrived, of course together, late lastnight. At first Madame Poulain said she couldn't take us in as the hotelwas full. But at last she said that they could give us two small rooms. They knew our name was Dampier, for Jack wrote to them from Marseilles. Heand I were only married three weeks ago: this is the end of our honeymoon. My husband, who is an artist, is now at his studio. We're going to movethere in a day or two. "

She spoke quite simply and straightforwardly, and the Senator felt oddlyrelieved by her words. 

He tried to remember exactly what had happened, what exactly the Poulainshad said, when he had gone into the big roomy kitchen which lay to the leftof the courtyard. 

He had certainly been quite clear. That is, he had explained, in his verygood French, to Madame Poulain, that he came to inquire, on behalf of ayoung English lady, whether her husband, a gentleman named Dampier, hadleft any message for her. And Madame Poulain, coming across to him in arather mysterious manner, had said in a low voice that she feared the younglady was toquée--i. E. , not quite all right in her head--as, savingMonsieur le Sénateur's presence, English ladies so often were! At greatlength she had gone on to explain that the young lady in question hadarrived very late the night before, and that seeing that she was so youngand pretty, and also that she knew so very little French, they had allowedher, rather than turn her out, to occupy their own daughter's room, a roomthey had never, never, under any circumstances, allowed a client to sleepin before. 

Then Madame Poulain had gone out and called Monsieur Poulain; and theworthy man had confirmed, in every particular, what his wife had justsaid--that is, he had explained how they had been knocked up late lastnight by a loud ringing at the porte cochère; how they had gone out to thedoor, and there, seized with pity for this pretty young English lady, whoapparently knew so very, very little French, they had allowed her to occupytheir daughter's room. .. . 

Finally, the good Poulains, separately and in unison, had begged theSenator to try and find out something about their curious guest, as sheapparently knew too little French to make herself intelligible. 

Now that he heard Nancy's quiet assertion, the Senator felt sure there hadbeen a mistake. The Poulains had evidently confused pretty Mrs. Dampierwith some wandering British spinster. 

"Let me go down with you now, " she said eagerly. "The truth is--I knowyou'll think me foolish--but I'm afraid of the Poulains! They've behaved sooddly and so rudely to me this morning. I liked them very much last night. "

"Yes, " he said cordially. "We'll go right down now; and my girl, Daisy, cancome too. "

When his daughter came into the room, "There's been some mistake, " saidSenator Burton briefly. "It's my fault, I expect. I can't have made itclear to Madame Poulain whom I meant. She has confused Mrs. Dampier withsome English lady who turned up here alone late last night. "

"But we turned up late last night, " said Nancy quickly. "Very, very late;long after midnight. "

"Still, my brother and I came in after you, " said Daisy Burton suddenly. And then she smiled and reddened. Mrs. Dampier must certainly haveoverheard Gerald's remark. 

"It was an awful job getting a cab after that play, father, and it musthave been nearly one o'clock when we got in. As we felt sure this side ofthe house was shut up we went up that queer little back staircase, and sopast the open door of Mrs. Dampier's room, " she explained. 

To the Senator's surprise, Mrs. Dampier also grew red; indeed, she blushedcrimson from forehead to chin. 

"My brother thought you were French, " went on Daisy, a little awkwardly. "In fact, we both thought you must be Madame Poulain's daughter. We knewthat was Virginie's room, and we've always been hearing of that girl eversince we first came to stay in Paris. She used to be at a convent school, and she's with her grandmother in the country just now, to be out of theExhibition rush. The Poulains simply worship her. "

The Senator looked very thoughtful as he walked downstairs behind the twogirls. The mystery was thickening in a very disagreeable way. Bothhotel-keepers had stated positively that the "demoiselle anglaise, " as theycalled her, had slept in their daughter's room. .. . 

But what was this the lady who called herself Mrs. Dampier saying?

"My husband and I realised you thought I was Mademoiselle Poulain, " saidNancy, and she also spoke with a touch of awkwardness. 

Senator Burton put out his right hand and laid it, rather heavily, on hisdaughter's shoulder. 

She stopped and turned round. "Yes, father?"

"Then I suppose you also saw Mr. Dampier, Daisy?"

Eagerly he hoped for confirmation of the charming stranger's story. But--

"No, " she said reluctantly. "We only saw Mrs. Dampier and the Poulains, father--they were all in the room together. You see, we were outside on thedark staircase, and just stopped for a minute on the landing to saygood-night to the Poulains, and to tell them that we had come in. "

"I suppose, Mrs. Dampier, that by then your husband had already gone to hisroom?" But in spite of his efforts to make his voice cordial the Senatorfailed to do so. 

"No, he hadn't gone upstairs then. " Nancy waited a moment, puzzled, thenshe exclaimed, "I remember now! Jack had just stepped up into a bigcupboard which forms one side of the little room. He came out again just asMiss Burton and--and your son had gone on upstairs. " Again she reddeneduncomfortably, wondering if this nice, kind girl had heard Jack'sunflattering epithets concerning "the young American cub. " But no, Jack'svoice, if angry, had been low. 

When they were at the bottom of the staircase the Senator turned to hisdaughter. 

"Daisy, " he said quietly, "I think it will be best for this lady to seeMadame Poulain with me alone. " And as his daughter showed no sign of havingunderstood, he said again, with a touch of severity in his voice: "Daisy, Idesire you to go upstairs. "

"You'll bring Mrs. Dampier up again, father?"

He hesitated--and then he said, "Yes, should she wish it, I will do so. "

And Daisy Burton turned away, up the stairs again, very reluctantly. Herindulgent father was not given to interfere with even the most casual ofher friendships, and she already felt as if this attractive youngEnglishwoman was to be her friend. 

Madame Poulain came slowly across the courtyard, and the Senator was struckby her look of ill-health, of languor. Clearly the worthy woman wasovertaxing her strength. It was foolish of the Poulains not to have morehelp in, but French people were like that!

Senator Burton knew that these good folks were trying to amass as large adowry as possible for their adored only child. Virginie was now ofmarriageable age, and the Poulains had already selected in their own mindsthe man they wished to see their son-in-law. He was owner of an hotel atChantilly, and as he was young, healthy, and reputed kind andgood-tempered, he had the right to expect a good dowry with his futurewife. The fact that this was an Exhibition Year was a great stroke of luckfor the Poulains. It almost certainly meant that their beloved Virginiewould soon be settled close to them in charming salubrious Chantilly. .. . 

The proprietress of the Hôtel Saint Ange now stood close to Senator Burtonand his companion. Her voluble tongue was stilled for once: she wastwisting a corner of her blue check apron round and round in her strong, sinewy-looking fingers. 

"Well, Madame Poulain, " the American spoke very gravely, "there hasevidently been some strange misunderstanding. This lady asserts mostpositively that she arrived here last night accompanied by her husband, Mr. Dampier. "

A look of--was it anger or pain?--came over Madame Poulain's face. Sheshook her head decidedly. "I have already told monsieur, " she said quickly, "that this lady arrived here last night alone. I know nothing of herhusband: I did not even know she was married. To tell you the truth, monsieur, we ought to have made her fill in the usual form. But it was solate that we put off the formality till to-day. I now regret very much thatwe did so. "

The Senator looked questioningly at Nancy Dampier. She had become from redvery white. "Do you understand what she says?" he asked slowly, impassively. 

"Yes--I understand. But she is not telling the truth. "

The Senator hesitated. "I have known Madame Poulain a long time, " he said. 

"Yes--and you've only known me a few minutes. "

Nancy Dampier felt as though she were living through a horriblenightmare--horrible and at the same time absurd. But she made a greateffort to remain calm, and to prove herself a sensible woman. So she addedquietly: "I can't tell--I can't in the least guess--why this woman istelling such a strange, silly untruth. It is easy to prove the truth ofwhat I say, Mr. Burton. My husband's name is John Dampier. He is an artist, and has a studio here in Paris. "

"Do you know the address of your husband's studio, Mrs. Dampier?"

"Of course I do. " The question stung her, this time past endurance. "Ithink I had better have a cab and drive there straight, " she said stiffly. "Please forgive me for having given you so much trouble. I'll manage allright by myself now. "

Every vestige of colour had receded from her face. There was a frightened, hunted expression in her blue eyes, and the Senator felt a sudden thrill ofconcern, of pity. What did it all mean? Why should this poor girl--shelooked even younger than his daughter--pretend that she had come hereaccompanied, if, after all, she had not done so?

Madame Poulain was still looking at them fixedly, and there was no verypleasant expression on her face. 

"Well, " she said at last, "that comes of being too good-natured, Monsieurle Sénateur. I never heard of such a thing! What does mademoiselle accuseus of? Does she think we made away with her friend? She may have arrivedwith a man--as to that I say nothing--but I assert most positively that inthat case he left her before she actually came into the Hôtel Saint Ange. "

"Will you please ask her to call me a cab?" said Nancy trembling. 

And he transmitted the request; adding kindly in English, "Of course I amcoming with you as far as your husband's studio. I expect we shall findthat Mr. Dampier went there last night. The Poulains have forgotten that hecame with you: you see they are very tired and overworked just now--"

But Nancy shook her head. It was impossible that the Poulains should haveforgotten Jack. 

Madame Poulain went a step nearer to Senator Burton and muttered something, hurriedly. He hesitated. 

"Mais si, Monsieur le Sénateur. "

And very reluctantly he transmitted the woman's disagreeable message. "Shethinks that perhaps as you are going to your husband's rooms, you hadbetter take your trunk with you, Mrs. Dampier. "

Nancy assented, almost eagerly. "Yes, do ask her to have my trunk broughtdown! I would far rather not come back here. " She was still quite collectedand quiet in her manner. "But, Mr. Burton, hadn't I better pay? Especiallyif they persist in saying I came alone?" she smiled, a tearful littlesmile. It still seemed so--so absurd. 

She took out her purse. "I haven't much money, for you see Jack always payseverything. But I've got an English sovereign, and I can always draw acheque. I have my own money. "

And the Senator grew more and more bewildered. It was clear that this girlwas either speaking the truth, or else that she was a most wonderfulactress. But, as every man who has reached the Senator's age is ruefullyaware, very young women can act on occasion in ordinary every day life, asno professional actress of genius ever did or ever will do on a stage. 

Madame Poulain went off briskly, and when she came back a few momentslater, there was a look of relief, almost of joy, on her face. "The cab ishere, " she exclaimed, "and Jules has brought down madame's trunk. "

Nancy looked at the speaker quickly. Then she was "madame" again? Well, that was something. 

"Three francs--that will quite satisfy us, " said Madame Poulain, handingover the change for her English sovereign. It was a gold napoleon and atwo-franc piece. For the first time directly addressing Mrs. Dampier, "There has evidently been a mistake, " she said civilly. "No doubt monsieurleft madame at the door, and went off to his studio last night. I expectmadame will find monsieur there, quite safe and sound. "

Senator Burton, well as he believed himself to be acquainted with hislandlady, would have been very much taken aback had he visioned whatfollowed his own and Mrs. Dampier's departure from the Hôtel Saint Ange. 

Madame Poulain remained at the door of the porte cochère till the opencarriage turned the corner of the narrow street. Then she looked ather nephew. 

"How much did she give you?" she asked roughly. And the young manreluctantly opened a grimy hand and showed a two franc piece. 

She snatched it from him, and motioned him back imperiously towards thecourtyard. 

After he had gone quite out of sight she walked quickly up the littlestreet till she came to a low, leather-bound door which gave access to thechurch whose fine buttress bestowed such distinction on the otherwiserather sordid Rue Saint Ange. Pushing open the door she passed through intothe dimly-lit side aisle where stood the Lady Altar. 

This old church held many memories for Madame Poulain. It was here thatVirginie had been christened, here that there had taken place the funeralservice of the baby son she never mentioned and still bitterly mourned, andit was there, before the High Altar, to the right of which she now stood, that she hoped to see her beloved daughter stand ere long a happy bride. 

She looked round her for a moment, bewildered by the sudden change from thebright sunlit street to the shadowed aisle. Then she suddenly espied whatshe had come to seek. Close to where she stood an alms-box clamped to thestone wall had written upon it the familiar legend, "Pour les Pauvres. "

Madame Poulain took a step forward, then dropped the three francs NancyDampier had just paid her, and the two francs she had extracted fromJules's reluctant hand, into the alms-box. 

CHAPTER III

That the cabman was evidently familiar with the odd address, "Impasse desNonnes, " brought a measure of relief to Senator Burton's mind, and as heturned and gazed into the candid eyes of the girl sitting by his side hewas ashamed of his vague suspicions. 

The little carriage bowled swiftly across the great square behind whichwound the Rue Saint Ange, up one of the steep, picturesque streets whichlead from thence to the Luxembourg Gardens. 

When they had gone some considerable way round the gay and statelypleasance so dear to the poets and students of all nations, they suddenlyturned into the quaintest, quietest thoroughfare imaginable, carved out ofone of those old convent gardens which till lately were among the mostbeautiful and characteristic features of the "Quartier. "

An architect, who happened also to be an artist, had set up in this remoteand peaceful oasis his household gods, adding on this, his own domain, afew studios with living rooms attached. 

A broad, sanded path ran between the low picturesque buildings, and so thecarriage was obliged to draw up at the entrance to the Impasse. 

Senator Burton looked up at the cabman: "Better not take off the lady'strunk just yet, " he said quickly in French, and though Nancy Dampier madeno demur, she looked surprised. 

They began walking up the shaded path, for above the low walls on eitherside sprang flowering shrubs and trees. 

"What a charming place!" exclaimed the Senator, smiling down at her. "Howfond you and your husband must be of it!"

But his companion shook her head. "I've never been here, " she said slowly. "You see this is my first visit to Paris. Though I ought not to call it avisit, for Paris is to be my home now, " and she smiled at last, happy inthe belief that in a few moments she would see Jack. 

She was a little troubled at the thought that Jack would be disappointed ather coming here in this way, with a stranger. But surely after she hadexplained the extraordinary occurrence of the morning he would understand?

They were now opposite No. 3. It was a curious, mosque-like building, withthe domed roof of what must be the studio, in the centre. Boldly inscribedon a marble slab set above the door was the name, "John Dampier. "

Before the bell had well stopped ringing, a sturdy apple-faced old woman, wearing the Breton dress Jack so much admired, stood before them. 

Nancy of course knew her at once for Mère Bideau. 

A pleasant smile lit up the gnarled face, and Nancy remembered what Jackhad so often said as to Mère Bideau's clever way of dealing with visitors, especially with possible art patrons. 

Mrs. Dampier looked very kindly at the old woman who had been so good andso faithful a servant to her Jack, and who, she hoped, would also serve herwell and faithfully. 

Before the Senator had time to speak, Mère Bideau, shaking her head, observed respectfully, "Mr. Dampier is not yet arrived. But if you, monsieur, and you, madame, will give yourselves the trouble of coming backthis afternoon he will certainly be here, for I am expecting himany moment--"

"Do you mean that Mr. Dampier has not been here at all this morning?"enquired the Senator. 

"No, monsieur, but as I have just had the honour of informing you, mymaster is to arrive to-day without fail. Everything is ready for him andfor his lady. I had a letter from Mr. Dampier the day before yesterday. "She waited a moment, and then added, "Won't monsieur come in and wait? Mr. Dampier would indeed be sorry to miss monsieur!"

So far so good. Senator Burton eagerly acknowledged to himself that herewas confirmation--as much confirmation as any reasonable man couldexpect--of Mrs. Dampier's story. 

This respectable old woman was evidently expecting her master and his brideto-day--of that there could now be no doubt. 

"I beg of you to enter, " said Mère Bideau again. "Monsieur and madame maylike to visit the studio? I do not say that it is very tidy--but mymaster's beautiful paintings are not affected by untidiness--" and shesmiled ingratiatingly. 

This important-looking gentleman, whom her shrewd Parisian eyes and earshad already told her was an American, might be an important picture-buyer;in any case, he was evidently gravely disappointed at not finding Mr. Dampier at home. 

"My master may arrive any moment, " she said again; "and though I've had toput all the luggage he sent on some time ago, in the studio--well, monsieurand madame will excuse that!"

She stood aside to allow the strangers to step through into the littlepassage. 

The Senator turned to Nancy: "Hadn't we better go in and wait?" he asked. "You must remember that if Mr. Dampier has gone to the hotel they willcertainly tell him we are here. "

"No, " said Nancy in a low voice, "I would rather not go in--now. My husbanddoesn't want me to see the place until he has got it ready for me. " Herlips quivered. "But oh, Mr. Burton, where can Jack be? What can he bedoing?" She put her hands together with a helpless, childish gesture ofdistress. Then, making an effort over herself, she said in a more composedvoice, "But I should like you to go in and just see some of Jack'spictures. "

With a smiling face Mère Bideau preceded the Senator down a sunny corridorinto the large studio. It was circular in shape, lighted by a skylight, andcontained a few pieces of fine old furniture, now incongruously allied to anumber of unopened packing-cases and trunks. 

Mère Bideau went on talking volubly. She was evidently both fond and proudof her master. Suddenly she waved her lean arm towards a large, ambitiouspainting showing a typical family group of French bourgeois sitting inan arbour. 

"This is what won Mr. Dampier his first Salon medal, " she explained. "Buthis work has much improved since then, as monsieur can see for himself!"and she uncovered an unframed easel portrait. It was a really interesting, distinguished presentment of a man. "Is not this excellent?" exclaimed MèreBideau eagerly. "What expression, what strength in the mouth, in the eyes!"

Senator Burton, had the circumstances been other, would perhaps have smiledat the old woman's enthusiasm, and at her intelligent criticism. But now hesimply nodded his head gravely. "Yes, that is a very good portrait, " hesaid absently. "And--and--where are the living rooms?"

"This way, monsieur!" Then, with some surprise, "Would monsieur care to seethe appartement? Then I presume monsieur is a friend of my master. "

But the Senator shook his head quickly. "No, no, I don't want to see therooms, " he said. "I was only curious to know if Mr. Dampier actuallylived here. "

As there was a suite of living rooms attached to the studio, why had theDampiers gone to an hotel?

"Yes, monsieur, there are three beautiful bedrooms, also a bath-room, and aroom which was not used by us, but which my master is going to turn into alittle salon for his lady. As for their meals--" she shrugged hershoulders--"they will have to be served as heretofore in the studio. " Then, "Does monsieur know the new Madame Dampier?" enquired Mère Bideau a trifleanxiously. 

"Yes, " he answered uncomfortably. "Yes, I do know her. "

"And if monsieur will excuse the question, is she a nice lady? It will makea great difference to me--"

"Yes, yes--she is very charming, very pretty. "

He could not bring himself to inform the good woman that the lady who hadcome with him, and who was now waiting outside the house, claimed to beMrs. Dampier. It would be too--too unpleasant if it turned out to be--well, a mistake!

The Senator was telling himself ruefully that though there was now ampleevidence of the existence of John Dampier, there was not evidence at all asyet that the artist had ever been at the Hôtel Saint Ange: still less thatthe young Englishwoman who had just now refused to accompany him into thestudio was John Dampier's wife. However, that fact, as she had herselfpointed out rather piteously, could very soon be put to the proof. 

Slowly Senator Burton left the studio and made his way into the open air, where Nancy was waiting for him. 

"Well?" he said questioningly. "Well, Mrs. Dampier, what is it that youwould like to do now?"

"I don't know what I ought to do, " said Nancy helplessly. She had againbecome very pale and she looked bewildered, as well as distressed. "You seeI felt so sure that we should find Jack here!"

"The only thing I can suggest your doing, " the American spoke kindly, if alittle coldly, "is to come back with me to the Hôtel Saint Ange. It isprobable that we shall find Mr. Dampier there, waiting for you. A dozenthings may have happened to him, none of which need give you any cause foranxiety. " He pulled out his watch. "Hum! It's close on twelve--yes, theonly thing to do is to go back to the hotel. It's almost certain we shallfind him there--" it was on his lips to add, "if he really did come withyou last night, " but he checked himself in time. 

"But Mr. Burton? Suppose Jack is not there?"

"If he doesn't return within the next two or three hours, then I willconsult with my son, who, young though he be, has a very good head on hisshoulders, as to what will be the best step for you to take. But don'tlet's meet trouble half-way! I have little doubt that we shall find Mr. Dampier waiting for you, vowing vengeance against the bold man who haseloped, even with the best of motives, with his wife!" he smiled, and poorNancy gave a quivering smile in return. 

"I should so much have preferred not to go back to that hotel, " she said, in a low voice. "I do hope Jack won't make me stay on there for the nexttwo or three days. "

And with the remembrance of what she had considered to be the gross insultput upon her by Madame Poulain, Nancy Dampier reddened deeply, while hernew friend felt more and more bewildered and puzzled. 

On the one hand Senator Burton had the testimony of three trustworthypersons that the young Englishwoman had arrived alone at the hotel thenight before; and against this positive testimony there was nothing but herbare word. 

Very, very reluctantly, he felt compelled to believe the Poulains' versionof what had happened. He could think of no motive--in fact there was nomotive--which could prompt a false assertion on their part. 

As they were driving back, each silent, each full of painful misgivings, the kindly American began to wonder whether he had not met with that, ifrare yet undoubted, condition known as entire loss of memory. 

If, as Madame Poulain had suggested, Mr. Dampier had left his wife justbefore their arrival at the hotel, was it not conceivable that by some kindof kink in Mrs. Dampier's brain--the kind of kink which brings men andwomen to entertain, when otherwise sane, certain strange delusions--she hadimagined the story she now told with so much circumstantial detail andclearness?

When they were nearing the hotel, Nancy put her hand nervously on hercompanion's arm. 

"Mr. Burton, " she whispered, "I'm horribly afraid of the Poulains! I keepthinking of such dreadful things. "

"Now look here, Mrs. Dampier--" Senator Burton turned, and looking downinto her agitated face, spoke gently and kindly--"though I quite admit toyou these people's conduct must seem inexplicable, I feel sure you arewronging the Poulains. They are very worthy, respectable folk--I've knownthem long enough to vouch for that fact. This extraordinarymisunderstanding, this mistake--for it must be either a misunderstanding ora mistake on some one's part--will soon be cleared up, so much is certain:till then I beg you not to treat them as enemies. "

And yet even Senator Burton felt taken aback when he saw the undisguisedannoyance, the keen irritation with which their return to the Hôtel SaintAnge was greeted by the woman to whom he had just given so good acertificate of character. 

Madame Poulain was standing on the street side of the open porte cochère, as the carriage drove down the narrow street, and the American wasastonished to see the change which came over her face. 

An angry, vindictive, even a cruel expression swept over it, and instead ofwaiting to greet them as the carriage drew up at the door she turnedabruptly away, and shuffled out of sight. 

"Wait a moment, " he said, as the fiacre drew up, "don't get out of thecarriage yet, Mrs. Dampier--"

And meekly Nancy obeyed him. 

The Senator hurried through into the courtyard. Much would he have given, and he was a careful man, to have seen the image he had formed of JackDampier standing on the sun-flecked flagstones. But the broad spacestretching before him was empty, deserted; during the daylight hours ofeach day the Exhibition drew every one away much as a honey cask might havedone a hive of bees. 

Madame Poulain did not come out of her kitchen as was her usual hospitablewont when she heard footsteps echoing under the vaulted porte cochère, andso her American guest had to go across, and walk right into herspecial domain. 

"We did not find the gentleman at his studio, " he said shortly, "and Ipresume, Madame Poulain, that he has not yet been here?"

She shook her head sullenly, and then, with none of her usual suavity, exclaimed, "I do not think, Monsieur le Sénateur, that you should havebrought that demoiselle back here!"

She gave him so odd--some would have said, so insolent a look, that theSenator realised for the first time what he was to realise yet further inconnection with this strange business, namely, that the many who go throughlife refusing to act the part of good Samaritans have at any rate excellentreasons for their abstention. 

It was disagreeably dear that Madame Poulain thought him a foolish old manwho had been caught by an adventuress's pretty face. .. . 

To their joint relief Monsieur Poulain came strolling into his wife'skitchen. 

"I've been telling Monsieur le Sénateur, " exclaimed Madame Poulain, "thatwe do not wish to have anything more to do with that young person whoasserts that she arrived here with a man last night. Monsieur le Sénateurhas too good a heart: he is being deceived. "

The hotel-keeper looked awkwardly, deprecatingly, at his valued Americanclient. "Paris is so full of queer people just now, " he muttered. "Theykeep mostly to the other side of the river, to the Opera quarter, but weare troubled with them here too, during an Exhibition Year!"

"There is nothing at all queer about this poor young lady, " said SenatorBurton sharply--somehow the cruel insinuation roused him to chivalrousdefence. But soon he changed his tone, "Now look here, my good friends"--heglanced from the husband to the wife--"surely you have both heard of peoplewho have suddenly lost their memory, even to the knowledge of who they wereand where they came from? Now I fear--I very much fear--that something ofthe kind has happened to this Mrs. Dampier! I am as sure that she is notconsciously telling a lie as I am that you are telling me the truth. Forone thing, I have ascertained that this lady's statement as to Mr. JohnDampier having a studio in Paris, where he was expected this morning, istrue. As to who she is herself that question can and will be soon set atrest. Meanwhile my daughter and myself"--and then he hesitated, for, wellas he knew French, Senator Burton did not quite know how to convey hismeaning, namely, that they, he and his daughter, meant to see her through. "My daughter and myself, " he repeated firmly, "are going to do the best wecan to help her. "

Madame Poulain opened her lips--then she shut them tight again. She longedto tell "Monsieur le Sénateur" that in that case she and Poulain must havethe regret of asking him to leave their hotel. 

But she did not dare to do this. 

Her husband broke in conciliatingly: "No doubt it is as Monsieur leSénateur says, " he observed; "the demoiselle is what we said she was onlythis morning--" and then he uttered the word which in French means so muchand so little--the word "toquée. "

There came another interruption. "Here come Mademoiselle Daisy and MonsieurGerald!" exclaimed Madame Poulain in a relieved tone. 

The Senator's son and daughter had just emerged across the courtyard, fromthe vestibule where ended the escalier d'honneur. There was a look of keen, alert interest and curiosity on Gerald Burton's fine, intelligent face. Hewas talking eagerly to his sister, and Madame Poulain told herself thatsurely these two young people could not wish their stay in Paris to becomplicated by this--this unfortunate business--for so the Frenchwoman inher own secret heart designated the mysterious affair which was causing herand her worthy husband so much unnecessary trouble. 

Some little trouble, so she admitted to herself, they had expected to have, but they had not thought it would take this very strange andtiresome shape. 

But the hotel-keeper was destined to be bitterly disappointed in her hopethat Daisy and Gerald Burton would try and dissuade their father fromhaving anything more to do with Mrs. Dampier. 

"Well, father?" the two fresh voices rang out, and the Senator smiled backwell pleased. He was one of those fortunate fathers who are on terms offull confidence and friendship as well as affection with their children. Indeed Senator Burton was specially blessed; Daisy was devoted to herfather, and Gerald had never given him a moment of real unease: the youngman had done well at college, and now seemed likely to become one of themost distinguished and successful exponents of that branch ofart--architecture--modern America has made specially her own. 

"Well?" said the Senator, "well, Daisy, I suppose you have told yourbrother about this odd affair?"

As his daughter nodded, he went on:--"As for me, I have unfortunatelynothing to tell. We found the studio, and everything was exactly as thispoor young lady said it would be--with the one paramount exception that herhusband was not there! And though his housekeeper seems to be expecting Mr. Dampier every moment, she has had no news of him since he wrote, some daysago, saying he would arrive this morning. It certainly is a veryinexplicable business--" he looked helplessly from one good-looking, intelligent young face to the other. 

"But where is Mrs. Dampier now?" asked Daisy eagerly. "I do think you mighthave told me before you took her away, father. I would have loved to havesaid good-bye to her. I do like her so much!"

"You won't have far to go to see her. Mrs. Dampier's at the door, sittingin a carriage, " said her father drily. "I had to bring her back here: Ididn't know what else to do. "

"Why, of course, father, you did quite right!"

And Gerald Burton chimed in, "Yes, of course you were right to do that, father. "

Senator Burton smiled a little ruefully at his children's unquestioningapproval. He himself was by no means sure that he had done "quite right. "

They walked, the three of them, across to the porte-cochère. 

Nancy Dampier was now sitting crouched up in a corner of the fiacre; ahandkerchief was pressed to her face, and she was trying, not verysuccessfully, to stifle her sobs of nervous fear and distress. 

With an eager, impulsive gesture the American girl leapt up the step of thelittle open carriage. "Don't cry, " she whispered soothingly. "It will allcome right soon! Why, I expect your husband just went out to see a friendand got kept somehow. If it wasn't for those stupid Poulains' mistake aboutlast night you wouldn't feel really worried, now would you?"

Nancy dabbed her eyes. She felt ashamed of being caught crying by thesekind people. "I know I'm being silly!" she gasped. "You must forgive me!It's quite true I shouldn't feel as worried as I feel now if it wasn't forthe Poulains--their saying, I mean, that they've never seen my husband. That's what upset me. It all seems so strange and--and horrid. My sensetells me it's quite probable Jack has gone in to see some friend, and waskept somehow. "

"And now, " said Daisy Burton persuasively, "you must come upstairs with us, and we'll get Madame Poulain to send us up a nice déjeuner to oursitting-room. "

And so the Senator found part of his new problem solved for him. Daisy, somuch was dear, had determined to befriend--and that to the uttermost--thisunfortunate young Englishwoman. 

But now there arose another most disagreeable complication. 

Madame Poulain had strolled out, her arms akimbo, to see what was going on. And, as if she had guessed the purport of Miss Burton's words, she walkedforward, and speaking this time respectfully, even suavely, to "Monsieur leSénateur, " observed, "My husband and I regret very greatly that we cannotask this lady to stay on in our hotel. We have no vacant room--no roomat all!"

And then it was that Gerald Burton, who had stood apart from thediscussion, saying nothing, simply looking intently, sympathetically at hissister and Mrs. Dampier--took a hand in the now complicated littlehuman game. 

"Father!" he exclaimed, speaking in low, sharp tones. "Of course Mrs. Dampier must stay on here with us till her husband comes back! If by someextraordinary chance he isn't back by to-night she can have my room--Ishall easily find some place outside. " And as his father looked at him alittle doubtfully he went on:--"Will you explain to Madame Poulain whatwe've settled? I can't trust myself to speak to the woman! She's behavingin the most unkind, brutal way to this poor little lady. "

He went on between his teeth, "The Poulains have got some game on inconnection with this thing. I wish I could guess what it is. "

And the Senator, much disliking his task, did speak to Madame Poulain. "Iam arranging for Mrs. Dampier to stay with us, as our guest, till herhusband's--hem--arrival. My son will find a room outside, so you need notdisturb yourself about the matter. Kindly send for Jules, and have hertrunk carried up to our apartments. "

And Madame Poulain, after an uncomfortably long pause, turned and silentlyobeyed the Senator's behest. 

CHAPTER IV

The afternoon wore itself away, and to two out of the four people who spentit together in the pleasant salon of the Burtons' suite of rooms the hours, nay the very minutes, dragged as they had never dragged before. 

Looking back to that first day of distress and bewilderment, Nancy latersometimes asked herself what would have happened, what she would have done, had she lacked the protection, the kindness--and what with Daisy Burtonalmost at once became the warm affection--of this American family?

Daisy and Gerald Burton not only made her feel that they understood, and, in a measure, shared in her distress, but they also helped her to bear heranguish and suspense. 

Although she was not aware of it very different was the mental attitude oftheir father. 

Senator Burton was one of those public men of whom modern America has aright to be proud. He was a hard worker--chairman of one Senate committeeand a member of four others; he had never been a brilliant debater, but hismore brilliant colleagues respected his sense of logic and force ofcharacter. He had always been unyielding in his convictions, absolutelyindependent in his views, a man to whom many of his fellow-countrymen wouldhave turned in any kind of trouble or perplexity sure of clear andhonest counsel. 

And yet now, as to this simple matter, the Senator, try as he might, couldnot make up his mind. Nothing, in his long life, had puzzled him as he waspuzzled now. No happening, connected with another human being, had ever sofilled him with the discomfort born of uncertainty. 

But the object of his--well, yes, his suspicions, was evidently quiteunconscious of the mingled feelings with which he regarded her, and he washalf ashamed of the ease with which he concealed his trouble both from hischildren and from their new friend. 

Nancy Dampier was far too ill at ease herself to give any thought as to howothers regarded her. She had now become dreadfully anxious, dreadfullytroubled about Jack. 

Much of her time was spent standing at a window of the corridor whichformed a portion of the Burtons' "appartement. " This corridor overlookedthe square, sunny courtyard below; but during that first dreary afternoonof suspense and waiting the Hôtel Saint Ange might have been an enchantedpalace of sleep. Not a creature came in or out through the portecochère--with one insignificant exception: two workmen, dressed inpicturesque blue smocks, clattered across the big white stones, the oneswinging a pail of quaking lime in his hand, and whistling gaily ashe went. 

When a carriage stopped, or seemed to stop, in the street which lay beyondthe other side of the quadrangular group of buildings, then Nancy's heartwould leap, and she would lean out, dangerously far over the grey bar ofthe window; but the beloved, and now familiar figure of her husband neverfollowed on the sound, as she hoped against hope, it would do. 

At last, when the long afternoon was drawing to a close, Senator Burtonwent down and had another long conversation with the Poulains. 

The hotel-keeper and his wife by now had changed their tone; they werequite respectful, even sympathetic:

"Of course it is possible, " observed Madame Poulain hesitatingly, "thatthis young lady, as you yourself suggested this morning, Monsieur leSénateur, is suffering from loss of memory, and that she has imagined herarrival here with this artist gentleman. But if so, what a strange thing tofancy about oneself! Is it not more likely--I say it with all respect, Monsieur le Sénateur--that for some reason unknown to us she is actinga part?"

And with a heavy heart "Monsieur le Sénateur" had to admit that MadamePoulain's view might be the correct one. Nancy's charm of manner, even herfragile and delicate beauty, told against her in the kindly but shrewdAmerican's mind. True, Mrs. Dampier--if indeed she were Mrs. Dampier--didnot look like an adventuress: but then does any adventuress look like anadventuress till she is found to be one?

The Frenchwoman suggested yet another theory. "I have been asking myself, "she said, smiling a little wryly, "another question. Is it not possiblethat this young lady and her husband had a quarrel? Such incidents dooccur, even during honeymoons. If the two had a little quarrel he may haveleft her at our door--just to punish her, Monsieur le Sénateur. He wouldknow she was safe in our respectable hotel. Your sex, if I may say so, Monsieur le Sénateur, is sometimes very unkind, very unfeeling, in theirdealings with mine. "

Monsieur Poulain, who had said nothing, here intervened. "How you do runon, " he said crossly. "You talk too much, my wife. We haven't to accountfor what has happened!"

But Senator Burton had been struck by Madame Poulain's notion. Men, and ifall the Senator had heard was true, especially Englishmen, do behave verystrangely sometimes to their women-folk. It was an Englishman who conceivedthe character of Petruchio. He remembered Mrs. Dampier's flushed face, theshy, embarrassed manner with which she had come forward to meet him thatmorning. She had seemed rather unnecessarily distressed at not being ableto make the hotel people understand her: she had evidently been muchdisappointed that her husband had not left a message for her. 

"My son thinks it possible that Mr. Dampier may have met with an accidenton his way to the studio. "

A long questioning look flashed from Madame Poulain to her husband, butPoulain was a cautious soul, and he gave his wife no lead. 

"Well, " she said at last, "of course that could be ascertained, " and theSenator with satisfaction told himself that she was at last taking a properpart in what had become his trouble, "but I cannot help thinking, Monsieurle Sénateur, that we might give this naughty husband a little longer--atany rate till to-morrow--to come back to the fold. "

And the Senator, perplexed and disturbed, told himself that after all thismight be good advice. 

But when he again went upstairs and joined the young people, he found thatthis was not at all a plan to which any one of the three was likely toconsent. In fact as he came into the sitting-room where Nancy Dampier wasnow restlessly walking up and down, he noticed that his son's hat and hisson's stick were already in his son's hands. 

"I think I ought to go off, father, to the local Commissaire of Police. There's one in every Paris district, " said Gerald Burton abruptly. "Mrs. Dampier is convinced that her husband did go out this morning, even if thePoulains did not see him doing so; and she and I think it possible, infact, we are afraid, that he may have met with an accident on his way tothe studio. "

As he saw by his father's face that this theory did not commend itself tothe Senator, the young man went on quickly:--"At any rate my doing this cando no harm. I might just inform the Commissaire that a gentleman has beenmissing since this morning from the Hôtel Saint Ange, and that the onlytheory we can form which can account for his absence is that he may havemet with an accident. Mrs. Dampier has kindly provided me with adescription of her husband, and she has told me what she thinks he mighthave been wearing. "

Nancy stopped her restless pacing. "If only the Poulains would allow me tosee where Jack slept last night!" she cried, bursting into tears. "But oh, everything is made so much more difficult by their extraordinary assertionthat he never came here at all! You see he had quite a large portmanteauwith him, and I can't possibly tell which of his suits he put onthis morning. "

And the Senator looking down into her flushed, tearful face, wonderedwhether she were indeed telling the truth--and most painfully he doubted, doubted very much. 

But when Gerald Burton came back at the end of two hours, after a long andweary struggle with French officialdom, all he could report was that to thebest of the Commissaire's belief no Englishman had met with an accidentthat day. There had been three street accidents yesterday in whichforeigners had been concerned, but none, most positively none, to-day. Headmitted, however, that all his reports were not yet in. 

Paris, from the human point of view, swells to monstrous proportions whenit becomes the background of a great International World's Fair. And thepolice, unlike the great majority of those in the vast hive where they keeporder, have nothing to gain in exchange for the manifold discomforts anExhibition brings in its train. 

At last, worn out by the mingled agitations and emotions of the day, Nancywent to bed. 

The Senator, Gerald and Daisy Burton waited up some time longer. It was acomfort to the father to be able to feel that at last he was alone for awhile with his children. To them at least he could unburden his perplexedand now burdened mind. 

"I suppose it didn't occur to you, Gerald, to go to this Mr. Dampier'sstudio?"

He looked enquiringly at his son. 

Gerald Burton was sitting at the table from which Mrs. Dampier had justrisen. He looked, if a trifle weary, yet full of eager energy and life--afine specimen of strong, confident young manhood--a son of whom any fathermight well be fond and proud. 

The Senator had great confidence in Gerald's sense and judgment. 

"Yes indeed, father, I went there first. Not only did I go to the studio, but from the Commissaire's office I visited many of the infirmaries andhospitals of the Quarter. You see, I didn't trust the Commissaire; I don'tthink he really knew whether there had been any street accidents or not. Infact at the end of our talk he admitted as much himself. "

"And at Mr. Dampier's studio?" queried the Senator. "What did you findthere? Didn't the old housekeeper seem surprised at her master'sprolonged absence?"

"Yes, father, she did indeed. I could see that she was beginning to feelvery much annoyed and put out about it. "

"Did she tell you, " asked the Senator hesitatingly, "what sort of man thisMr. Dampier is?"

"She spoke very well of him, " said young Burton, with a touch of reluctancein his voice, "but she admitted that he was a casual sort of fellow. "

Gerald's sister looked up. She broke in, rather eagerly, "What sort of aman do you suppose Mr. Dampier to be, Gerald?"

He shrugged his shoulders, rather ill-temperedly. He, too, was tired, afterthe long day of waiting and suspense. "How can I possibly tell, Daisy? Imust say it's rather like a woman to ask such a question! From somethingMrs. Dampier said, I gather he is a plain-looking chap. "

And then Daisy laughed heartily, for the first time that day. "Why, sheadores him!" she cried, "she can't have told you that. "

"Indeed she did! But you weren't there when I made her describe himcarefully to me. I had to ask her, for it was important that I should havesome sort of notion what the fellow is like. "

He took out his note-book. "I'll tell you what I wrote down, practicallyfrom her dictation. 'A tall man--taller than the average Englishman. Aloosely-hung fellow; (he doesn't care for any kind of sport, I gather). Thirty five years of age; (seems a bit old to have married a girl--shewon't be twenty till next month). He has big, strongly-marked features, anda good deal of fair hair. Always wears an old fashioned repeater watch andbunch of seals. Was probably wearing this morning a light grey tweed suitand a straw hat. '" Gerald looked up and turned to his sister, "If you callthat the description of a good-looking man, well, all I can say is that Idon't agree with you, Daisy!"

"He's a very good artist, " said the Senator mildly. "Did you go into hisstudio, Gerald?"

"Yes, I did. And I can't say that I agree with you, father: I didn't carefor any of the pictures I saw there. "

Gerald Burton spoke rather crossly. Both his father and sister feltsurprised at his tone. He was generally very equable and good-tempered. Butwhere any sort of art was concerned he naturally claimed to speak withauthority. 

"Have you any theory, Gerald"--the Senator hesitated, "to account for theextraordinary discrepancy between the Poulains' story and what Mrs. Dampierasserts to be the case?"

"Yes, father, I have a quite definite theory. I believe the Poulains arelying. "

The young man leant forward across the round table. He spoke veryearnestly, but even as he spoke he lowered his voice, as if fearing to beoverheard. 

Senator Burton glanced at the door. "You can speak quite openly, " he saidrather sharply. "You forget that there is the door of our appartement aswell as a passage between this room and the staircase. "

"No, father, I don't forget that. But it would be quite easy for anyone tocreep in. The Poulains have pass keys everywhere. "

"My dear boy, they don't understand English!"

"Jules does, father. He knows far more English than he admits. At any ratehe understands everything one says to him. "

Daisy broke in with a touch of impatience. "But with what object could thePoulains tell such a stupid and cruel untruth, one, too, which is sure tobe found out very soon? If this Mr. Dampier did arrive here last night, well then, he did--if he didn't, he didn't!"

"Yes, that's true, " Gerald turned to his sister. "And though I've given agood deal of thought to it during the last few hours--I can't form anytheory yet as to why the Poulains are lying. I only feel quite sure thatthey are. "

"It's a curious thing, " observed the Senator musingly, "that neither of yousaw this Mr. Dampier last night--curious, I mean, that he should have juststepped up into a cupboard, as Mrs. Dampier says he did, at the exactmoment when you were outside the door. "

Neither of his children made any reply. That coincidence still troubledDaisy Burton. 

At last, --"I don't see that it's at all curious, " exclaimed her brotherhastily. "It's very unfortunate, of course, for if we had happened to seehim the Poulains couldn't have told the tale they told you this morning. "

The Senator sighed. He was tired--tired of the long afternoon spent indoing nothing, and, to tell the truth, tired of the curious, inexplicableproblem with which he had been battling since the morning. 

"Well, I say it with sincere regret, but I am inclined to believe thePoulains. "

"Father!" His son was looking at him with surprise and yes, indignation. 

"Yes, Gerald. I am, for the present, inclined not only to believe thePoulains' clear and consistent story, but to share Madame Poulain's view ofthe case--"

"And what is her view?" asked Daisy eagerly. 

"Well, my dear, her view--the view, let me remind you, of a sensible womanwho, I fancy, has seen a good deal of life--is that Mr. Dampier didaccompany his wife here, as far as the hotel, that is. That then, as theresult of what our good landlady calls a 'querelle d'amoureux, ' he lefther--knowing she would be quite safe of course in so respectable a place asthe Hôtel Saint Ange. "

Daisy Burton only said one word--but that word was "Brute!" and her fathersaw that there was the light of battle in her eyes. 

"My dear, " he said gently, "you forget that it was an Englishman who wrote'The Taming of the Shrew. '"

"And yet American girls--of a sort--are quite eager to marry Englishmen!"

The Senator quickly pursued his advantage. "Now is it likely that MadamePoulain would make such a suggestion if she were not telling the truth? Ofcourse her view is that this Mr. Dampier will turn up, safe and sound, whenhe thinks he has sufficiently punished his poor little wife for her sharein their 'lovers' quarrel. '"

But at this Gerald Burton shook his head. "We know nothing of this manDampier, " he said, "but I would stake my life on Mrs. Dampier'struthfulness. "

The Senator rose from his chair. Gerald's attitude was generous; he wouldnot have had him otherwise but still he felt irritated by his son'ssuspicion of the Poulains. 

"Well, it's getting late, and I suppose we ought all to go to bed now, especially as they begin moving about so early in this place. As for you, my boy, I hope you've secured a good room outside, eh?"

Gerald Burton also got up. He smiled and shook his head. 

"No, father, I haven't found a place at all yet! The truth is I've been sotremendously taken up with this affair that I forgot all about having tofind a room to-night. "

"Oh dear!" cried Daisy in dismay. "Won't you find it very difficult? Theysay Paris is absolutely full just now. Why, a lot of people who have neverlet before are letting out rooms just now--so Madame Poulain says. "

"Don't worry about me. I shall be all right, " said Gerald quickly. "Isuppose my things have been moved into your room, father?"

Daisy nodded. "Yes, I saw to all that. In fact I did more--" she smiled;the brother and sister were very fond of one another. "I packed your bagfor you, Ger. "

"Thanks, " he said. And then going quickly round the table, he bent down andkissed her. "I'll be in early to-morrow morning, " he said, nodding tohis father. 

Then he went out. 

Daisy Burton felt surprised. Gerald was the best of brothers, but he didn'toften kiss her good-night. There had been a strange touch of excitement, ofemotion, in his manner to-night. It was natural that she herself should bemoved by Nancy Dampier's distress. But Gerald? Gerald, who was generallyspeaking rather nonchalant, and very, very critical of women?

"Gerald's tremendously excited about this thing, " said Daisy thoughtfully. She was two years younger in years than her brother, but older, as youngwomen are apt to be older, in all that counts in civilised life. "I'venever seen him quite so--so keen about anything before. "

"I hope he will have got a comfortable room, " said the Senator a littlecrossly. Then fondly he turned and took his daughter's hand. "Sleep well, my darling, " he said. "You two have been very kind to that poor littlesoul. And I love you both for it. Whatever happens, kindness isnever lost. "

"Why, what d'you mean, father?" she looked down at him troubled, ratherdisturbed by his words. 

"Well, Daisy, the truth is, "--he hesitated--"I can't make out whether thisMrs. Dampier is all she seems to be. And I want to prepare you for apossible disappointment, my dear. When I was a young man I once took agreat fancy to someone who--well, who disappointed me cruelly--" he wasspeaking very gravely. "It just spoilt my ideal for a time--I mean my idealof human nature. Now I don't want anything of that kind to happen to you orto our boy in connection with this--this young lady. "

"But, father? You know French people aren't as particular about telling thetruth as are English people. I can't understand why you believe thePoulains' story--"

"My dear, I don't know what to believe, " he said thoughtfully. 

She was twenty-four years old, this grey-eyed, honest, straightforward girlof his; and yet Senator Burton, much as he loved her, knew very little asto her knowledge of life. Did Daisy know anything of the ugly side of humannature? Did she know, for instance, that there are men and women, especially women, who spend their lives preying on the honest, thechivalrous, and the kind?

"The mystery is sure to be cleared up very soon, " he said aloud. "If whatour new friend says is true there must be as many people in England whoknow her to be what she says she is, as there are people in Paris whoevidently know all about the artist, John Dampier. "

"Yes, that's true. But father?"

"Yes, my dear. "

"I am quite sure Mrs. Dampier is telling the truth. "

Somehow the fact that Daisy was anxious to say that she disagreed with himstung the Senator. 

"Then what do you think of the Poulains?" he asked quietly--"the Poulains, whom you have known, my dear, ever since you were fifteen--on whose honestyand probity I personally would stake a good deal. What do you thinkabout them?"

Daisy began to look very troubled. "I don't know what to think, " shefaltered. "The truth is, father, I haven't thought very much of thePoulains in the matter. You see, Madame Poulain has not spoken to me aboutit at all. But you see that Gerald believes them to be lying. "

"Gerald, " said the Senator rather sharply, "is still only a boy in manythings, Daisy. And boys are apt, as you and I know, to take sides, to feelvery positive about things. But you and I, my darling--well, we must try tobe judicial--we must try to keep our heads, eh?"

"Yes, father, yes--we must, indeed"; but even as she said the words she didnot quite know what her father meant by "judicial. "

And Gerald Burton? For a while, perhaps for an hour, holding his heavy bagin his hand, he wandered about from hostelry to hostelry, only to be toldeverywhere that there was no room. 

Then, taking a sudden resolution, he went into a respectable little caféwhich was still open, and where he and his father, in days gone by, hadsometimes strolled in together when Daisy was going about with friends inParis. There he asked permission to leave his bag. Even had he found aroom, he could not have slept--so he assured himself. He was too excited, his brain was working too quickly. 

Talking busily, anxiously, argumentatively to himself as he went, he madehis way to the river--to the broad, tree-lined quays which to your truelover of Paris contain the most enchanting and characteristic vistas ofthe city. 

Once there, his footsteps became slower. He thrust his hands into hispockets and walked along, with eyes bent on the ground. 

What manner of man could John Dampier be to leave his young wife--such abeautiful, trusting, confiding creature as was evidently this poor girl--inthis cruel uncertainty? Was it conceivable that the man lived who couldbehave to this Mrs. Dampier with the unkindness Gerald's father hadsuggested--and that as the outcome of a trifling quarrel? No! GeraldBurton's generous nature revolted from such a notion. 

And yet--and yet his father thought it quite possible! To Gerald hisfather's views and his father's attitude to life meant a great deal morethan he was wont to allow, either to that same kind indulgent father or tohimself; and now he had to admit that the Senator did believe that whatseemed so revolting to him, Gerald, was the most probable explanation ofthe mystery. 

The young man had stayed quite a while at the studio, listening to MèreBideau's garrulous confidences. Now and again he had asked her a question, forced thereto by some obscure but none the less intense desire to knowwhat Nancy Dampier's husband was like. And the old woman had acknowledged, in answer to a word from him, that her master was not a good-tempered man. 

"Monsieur" could be very cross, very disagreeable sometimes. But bah! werenot all gentlemen like that?--so Mère Bideau had added with an easy laugh. 

On the whole, however--so much must be admitted--she had given Dampier avery good character. If quick-tempered, he was generous, considerate, and, above all, hard-working. But--but Mère Bideau had been very much surprisedto hear "Monsieur" was going to be married--and to an Englishwoman, too!She, Mère Bideau, had always supposed he preferred Frenchwomen; in fact, hehad told her so time and again. But bah! again; what won't a pretty face dowith a man? So Mère Bideau had exclaimed 'twixt smile and sigh. 

Gerald Burton began walking more quickly, this time towards the west, alongthe quay which leads to the Chamber of Deputies. 

The wide thoroughfare was deserted save for an occasional straggler makinghis weary way home after a day spent in ministering to the wants and thepleasures of the strangers who now crowded the city. .. . 

How wise he, Gerald Burton, was now showing himself to be in thus spendingthe short summer night out-of-doors, à la belle étoile, as the French socharmingly put it, instead of in some stuffy, perhaps not overclean, little room!

But soon his mind swung back to the strange events of the past day!

Already Nancy Dampier's personality held a strange, beckoning fascinationfor the young American. He hadn't met many English girls, for his fatherfar preferred France to England, and it was to France they sped wheneverthey had time to do so. And Gerald Burton hadn't cared very much for thefew English girls he had met. But Nancy was very, very different from theonly two kinds of her fellow countrywomen with whom he had ever beenacquainted--the kind, that is, who is closely chaperoned by vigilant motheror friend, and the kind who spends her life wandering about the worldby herself. 

How brave, how gentle, how--how self-controlled Mrs. Dampier had been!While it was clear that she was terribly distressed, and all the moredistressed by the Poulains' monstrous assertion that she had come alone tothe Hôtel Saint Ange, yet how well she had behaved all that long day ofwaiting and suspense! How anxious she had been to spare theBurtons trouble. 

Not for a single moment had he, Gerald Burton, felt with her as he so oftenfelt with women--awkward and self-conscious. Deep in his inmost heart hewas aware that there were women and girls who thought him verygood-looking; and far from pleasing him, the knowledge made him feelsometimes shy, sometimes even angry. He already ardently wished to protect, to help, to shelter Mrs. Dampier. 

Daisy had been out of the room for a moment, probably packing his bag, whenhe had come back tired and weary from his fruitless quest, and Mrs. Dampier, if keenly disappointed that he had no news, had yet thanked himvery touchingly for the trifling trouble, or so it now seemed, that he hadtaken for her. 

"I don't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for your kindfather, for your sister, and--and for you, Mr. Burton. "

He walked across the bridge leading to the Champs Elysées, paced round theArc de Triomphe, and then strolled back to the deserted quays. He had nowish to go on to the Boulevards. It was Paris asleep, not Paris awake, withwhich Gerald Burton felt in close communion during that short summer night. 

And how short is a Paris summer night! Soon after he had seen the sun riseover an eastern bend of the river, the long, low buildings which line theSeine below the quays stirred into life, and he was able to enjoy adelicious, a refreshing plunge in the great swimming-bath which is amongthe luxuries Paris provides for those of her sons who areearly-morning toilers. 

Six o'clock found Gerald Burton at the café where he had left his bag, ready for a cup of good coffee. 

The woman who served him--the waiters were still asleep--told him of a roomlikely to be disengaged the next night. 

The next night? But if Dampier were to come back this morning--as, according to one theory, he was very likely to do--then he, Gerald, wouldhave no need of a room. 

Somehow that possibility was not as agreeable to him as it ought to havebeen. In theory Gerald Burton longed for this unknown man's return--for ahappy solution, that is, of the strange mystery which had been cast, in sodramatic a fashion, athwart the Burtons' placid, normal life; but, scarceconsciously to himself, the young American felt that Dampier's reappearancewould end, and that rather tamely, an exciting and in some ways a veryfascinating adventure. 

As he came up the Rue Saint Ange, he saw their landlord, a blue apron tiedabout his portly waist, busily brushing the pavement in front of the hotelwith a yellow broom. 

"Well?" he said eagerly, "well, Monsieur Poulain, any news?"

Poulain looked up at him and shook his head. "No, Monsieur Gerald, " he saidsullenly, "no news at all. "

CHAPTER V

Nancy Dampier sat up in bed. 

Long rays of bright sunlight filtering in between deep blue curtains showedher a large, lofty room, with panelled walls, and furniture covered withblue damask silk. 

It was more like an elegant boudoir in an old English country house than abedroom, and for a moment she wondered, bewildered, where she could be. 

Then suddenly she remembered--remembered everything; and her heart filled, brimmed over, with seething pain and a sharp, overwhelming sensationof fear. 

Jack had gone: disappeared: vanished as if the earth had swallowed him up!And she, Nancy, was alone in a foreign city where she did not know a singlesoul, with the paramount exception of the American strangers who had cometo her help in so kindly and so generous a fashion. 

She pushed her soft hair back from her forehead, and tried to recall, stepby step, all that had happened yesterday. 

Two facts started out clearly--her almost painful gratitude to the Burtonsand her shrinking terror of the Poulains, or rather of Madame Poulain, thewoman who had looked fixedly into her face and lied. 

As to what had happened to Dampier, Nancy's imagination began to whisperthings of unutterable dread. If her Jack had been possessed of a large sumof money she would have suspected the hotel people of havingmurdered him. .. . 

But no, she and Jack had come to the end of the ample provision of gold andbank-notes with which they had started for Italy. As is the way with mostprosperous newly-married folk, they had spent a good deal more on theirshort honeymoon than they had reckoned to do. He had said so the day beforeyesterday, in the train, when within an hour of Paris. Indeed he had addedthat one of the first things they must do the next day must be to call atthe English bank where he kept an account. 

She now told herself that she had to face the possibility, nay theprobability, that her husband had met with some serious accident on his wayto the Impasse des Nonnes. Nancy knew that this had been Gerald Burton'stheory, and of her three new kind friends it was Gerald Burton whoimpressed her with the greatest trust and confidence. He, unlike hisfather, had at once implicitly believed her version of what had taken placewhen she and Jack arrived at the Hôtel Saint Ange. 

The bedroom door opened, cautiously, quietly, and Daisy Burton came incarrying a tray in her pretty graceful hands. 

Poor Nancy! She felt confused, grateful, and a little awkward. She had notrealised that her nervous dread of Madame Poulain would mean that this kindgirl must wait on her. 

"I came in before, but you were sound asleep. Still, I thought I must wakeyou now, for father wants to know if you would mind him going to ourEmbassy about your husband? It's really my brother's idea. As you know, Gerald thinks it almost certain that Mr. Dampier met with some kind ofaccident yesterday morning, and he isn't a bit satisfied with the way thelocal Commissaire de Police answered his enquiries. Gerald thinks the onlyway to get attended to in Paris is to make people feel that you areimportant, and that they will get into trouble if they don't attend to youpromptly!"

Even as she was speaking Daisy Burton smiled rather nervously, for both sheand Gerald had just gone through a very disagreeable half-hour with theirgenerally docile and obedient father. 

The Senator did not wish to go to the American Embassy--at any rate notyet--about this strange business. He had pleaded with both his young peopleto wait, at any rate, till the afternoon: at any moment, so he pointed out, they might have news of the missing man: but Gerald was inexorable. 

"No, father, that's no use; if we do nothing we shan't get proper attentionfrom the police officials till to-morrow. If you will only go and see Mr. Curtis about this business I promise to take all other trouble offyour hands. "

And then the Senator had actually groaned--as if he minded trouble!

"Mr. Curtis will do for you what he certainly wouldn't do for me, father. Daisy can go with you to the Embassy: I'll stay and look after Mrs. Dampier: she mustn't be left alone, exposed to the Poulains' insolence. "

And so the matter had been settled. But Senator Burton had made onestipulation:--

"I won't go to the Embassy, " he said firmly, "without hearing from Mrs. Dampier's own lips that such is her wish. And, Daisy? Gerald? Hearken tome--neither of you is to say anything to influence her in the matter, oneway or the other. "

And so it was with a certain relief that Daisy Burton now heard her newfriend say eagerly:

"Why of course! I shall only be too grateful if your father will doanything he thinks may help me to find Jack. Oh, you don't know howbewildered and how frightened I feel!"

And the other answered soothingly, "Yes, indeed I do know how you mustfeel. But I expect it will be all right soon. After all, Geraldsaid--"--she hesitated a moment, and then went on more firmly--"Gerald saidthat probably Mr. Dampier met with quite a slight accident, and that mightbe the reason why the tiresome Commissaire de Police knew nothingabout it. "

"But if it was a slight accident, " Nancy objected quickly, "Jack would havelet me know at once! You don't know my husband: he would move heaven andearth to save me a minute's anxiety or trouble. "

"I am sure of that. But Gerald says that if Mr. Dampier did try and arrangefor you to be sent a message at once, the message miscarried--"

It was an hour later. The Senator had listened in silence while his youngEnglish guest had expressed in faltering, but seemingly very sincere, tones, her gratitude for his projected visit to the American Embassy. Nay, she had done more. Very earnestly Mrs. Dampier had begged Senator Burtonand his daughter not to give themselves more trouble over her affairs thanwas absolutely necessary. 

And her youth, her beauty, her expression of pitiful distress had touchedthe Senator, though it had not shaken his belief in the Poulains' story. Hedid however assure her, very kindly and courteously, that he grudged notime spent in her service. 

And then, while Gerald Burton accompanied his father and his sisterdownstairs, Nancy Dampier was left alone for a few minutes with her owntroubled and bewildered thoughts. 

She walked restlessly over to one of the high windows of the sitting-room, and looked down into the shady garden below. Then her eyes wandered overthe picturesque grey and red roofs of the old Paris Jack Dampier lovedso well. 

Somehow the cheerful, bright beauty of this June morning disturbed and evenangered poor Nancy. She remembered with distaste, even with painful wonder, the sensations of pleasure, of amusement, of admiration with which she hadfirst come through into this formal, harmoniously furnished salon, whichwas so unlike any hotel sitting-room she had ever seen before. 

But that had been yesterday morning--infinitely long ago. 

Now, each of the First Empire pieces of furniture seemed burnt into herbrain: and the human faces of the dull gold sphinxes which jutted from eachof the corners of the long, low settee seemed to grin at her maliciously. 

She felt unutterably forlorn and wretched. If only she could do something!She told herself, with a sensation of recoil and revolt, that she couldnever face another day of suspense and waiting spent as had been the wholeof yesterday afternoon and evening. 

Going up to the brass-rimmed round table, she took up a book which waslying there. It was a guide to Paris, arranged on the alphabeticalprinciple. Idly she began turning over the leaves, and then suddenly NancyDampier's cheeks, which had become so pale as to arouse Senator Burton'scommiseration, became deeply flushed. She turned over the leaves of theguide-book with feverish haste, anxious to find what it was that she nowsought there before the return of Gerald Burton. 

At last she came to the page marked M. 

Yes, there was what she at once longed and dreaded to find! And she hadjust read the last line of the paragraph when Gerald Burton came backinto the room. 

Looking at him fixedly, she said quietly and in what he felt to be anunnaturally still voice, "Mr. Burton? There is a place in Paris called theMorgue. Do you not think that I ought to go there, to-day? It says in thisguide-book that people who are killed in the streets of Paris are takenstraight to the Morgue. "

The young American nodded gravely. The Commissary of Police had mentionedthe Morgue, had in fact suggested that those who were seeking John Dampierwould do well to go there within a day or two. 

Nancy went on:--"Could I go this morning? I would far rather go by myself, I mean without saying anything about it to either your father or toyour sister. "

He answered quickly, but so gently, so kindly, that the tears sprang to hereyes, "Yes, I quite understand that. But of course you must allow me to gowith you. "

And she answered, again in that quiet, unnaturally still voice, "Thank you. I shall be grateful if you will. " Then after a moment, "Couldn't we startsoon--I mean now?"

"Why yes, certainly--if you wish it. "

Without saying anything further, she went to put on her hat. 

Gerald Burton's notions as to the Morgue were in a sense at once confusedand clear. He had known of the place ever since he could read. He was awarethat it was a building where all those who die a violent death are at oncetaken: he imagined it further to be a place where morbid curiosity drewdaily many tourists. In fact in an old guide-book of which his father wasfond he remembered that there ran a sentence:--

 The Morgue is certainly one of the most curious and extraordinary sights of Paris, but only those who are in the enjoyment of good nerves are advised to visit it. 

As he waited for Mrs. Dampier the young man's face became very, very grave. Till now he had not envisaged the possibility that John Dampier, thisunknown man across the current of whose life he, Gerald Burton, had beenthrust in so strange and untoward a manner, might be dead. 

Sudden death--that dread possibility which is never far from any one ofus--never haunts the mind of normal youth. 

But now there came to Gerald Burton a sudden overwhelming understanding ofthe transience not only of human life, but what means so much more to mostsentient human beings, the transience of such measure of happiness as wepoor mortals are allowed to enjoy. 

His imagination conjured up Nancy Dampier as he had first seen her standingin Virginie Poulain's little room. She had been a vision of lovelygirlhood, and yes, far more than that--though he had not known it then--ofradiant content. 

And now?

His unspoken question was answered by Mrs. Dampier's return into the room. He looked at her searchingly. Yes, she was lovely--her beauty ratherheightened than diminished, as is so often the case with a very youngwoman, by the ordeal she was going through, but all the glow and radiancewere gone from her face. 

"I ought to have told you before, " he said impulsively, "that--that amongthe men who were taken to the Morgue yesterday morning there was no one whoin the least answered to the description you have given me of Mr. Dampier--so much the Commissary of Police was able to inform me mostpositively. "

And Nancy drew a long convulsive breath of relief. 

They went down to the courtyard, and across to the porte cochère. Whilethey did so Gerald Burton was unpleasantly conscious that they were beingwatched; watched from behind the door which led into the garden, for therestood Jules, a broom as almost always in his hand: watched from the kitchenwindow, where Madame Poulain stood with arms akimbo: watched from behindthe glass pane of the little office which was only occupied when MonsieurPoulain was engaged in the pleasant task of making out his profitableweekly bills. 

But not one of the three watchers came forward and offered to do them eventhe usual, trifling service of hailing a cab. 

The two passed out into the narrow street and walked till they came to thesquare where stood, at this still early hour of the morning, long rows ofopen carriages. 

"I think we'd better drive?" said Gerald Burton questioningly. 

And his companion answered quickly, "Oh yes! I should like to get there asquickly as possible. " And then her pale face flushed a little. "Mr. Burton, will you kindly pay for me?"

She put her purse, an absurd, delicately tinted little beaded purse whichhad been one of her wedding presents, into his hand. 

Gerald took it without demur. Had he been escorting an American girl, hewould have insisted on being paymaster, but some sure instinct had alreadytaught him how to treat Nancy Dampier--he realised she preferred not addinga material to the many immaterial obligations she now owed theBurton family. 

A quarter of an hour's quick driving brought them within sight of the low, menacing-looking building which is so curiously, in a sense so beautifully, situated on the left bank of the Seine, to the right of Notre Dame. 

"Mrs. Dampier? I beg you not to get out of the carriage till I come andfetch you, " said Gerald earnestly, "there is no necessity for you to comeinto the Morgue unless--" he hesitated. 

"I know what you mean, " she said quietly. "Unless you see someone there whomight be Jack. Yes, Mr. Burton, I'll stay quietly in the carriage till youcome and fetch me. It's very good of you to have thought of it. "

But when they drew up before the great closed door two or three of theincorrigible beggars who spend their days in the neighbourhood of thegreater Paris churches, came eagerly forward. 

Here were a fine couple, a good-looking Englishman and his bride. True, they were about to be cheated out of their bit of fun, but they might begood for a small dole--so thought the shrewder of those idlers who seemed, as the carriage drew up, to spring out of the ground. 

One of them strolled up to Gerald. "M'sieur cannot go into the Morgueunless he has a permit, " he said with a whine. 

Gerald shook the man off, and rang at the closed door. It seemed a longtime before it was opened by a man dressed like a Paris workman, that is ina bright blue blouse and long baggy white trousers. 

"I want to view any bodies which were brought in yesterday. I fear I am alittle early?"

He slipped a five franc piece into the man's hand. But the silver key whichunlocks so many closed doors in Paris only bought this time a civil answer. 

"Impossible, monsieur! I should lose my place. I could not do it for athousand francs. " And then in answer to the American's few words ofsurprise and discomfiture, --"Yes, it's quite true that we were open to thepublic till three years ago. But it's easier to get into the Elysée than itis to get into the Morgue, nowadays. " He waited a moment, then he murmuredunder his breath, "Of course if monsieur cares to say that he is lookingfor someone who has disappeared, and if he will provide a description, themore commonplace the better, then--well, monsieur may be able to obtain apermit! At any rate monsieur has only to go along to the office wherepermits are issued to find that what I say is true. If only monsieur willbring me a permit I will gladly show monsieur everything there is to beseen. " The man became enthusiastic. "Not only are there the bodies to see!We also possess relics of many great criminals; and as for ourrefrigerating machines--ah, monsieur, they are really in their way wonders!Well worth, as I have sometimes heard people say, coming all the way toParis to see!"

Sick at heart Gerald Burton turned away--not, however, before he hadexplained gravely that his wish in coming to the Morgue was not to gratifyidle curiosity, but to seek a friend whose disappearance since the morningbefore was causing acute anxiety. 

The man looked at him doubtfully--somehow this young gentleman did not lookas people generally look who come to the Morgue on serious business. Thejanitor was only too familiar with the signs--the air of excitement, ofdejection, of suspense, the reddened eyelids. .. . But, "In that case I amsure to see monsieur again within a few minutes, " he said politely. 

Nancy had stepped down from the carriage. "Well?" she said anxiously. "Well, won't he let you in?"

"We shall have to get an order. The office is only just over there, opposite Notre Dame. Shall we dismiss the cab?"

"Yes, " she said. "I would far rather walk across. " Still followed by atroop of ragged idlers, they hastened across the great space in front ofNotre Dame and so to the office of the Morgue. 

At first the tired official whose not always easy duty it is todiscriminate between the morbid sightseer and the anxious relative orfriend, did not believe the American's story. He, too, evidently thoughtthat Gerald and the latter's charming, daintily dressed companion weresimply desirous of seeing every sight, however horrible, that Paris has tooffer. But when he heard the name "Dampier, " his manner suddenly changed. There came over his face a sincere look of pity and concern. 

"You made enquiries concerning this gentleman yesterday?" he observed, andGerald Burton, rather surprised, though after all he need not have been, assented. Then the Commissary of Police had been to some trouble for himafter all? He, Gerald, had done the man an injustice. 

"We have had five bodies already brought in this morning, " said the clerkthoughtfully. "But I'm sure that none of them answers to the description wehave had of madame's husband. Let me see--Monsieur Dampier is agedthirty-four--he is tall, dressed in a grey suit, or possibly a brown suitof clothes, with a shock of fair hair?"

And again Gerald Burton was surprised how well the man remembered. 

The other went into another room and came back with a number of grey cardsin his hand. He began to mumble over the descriptions, and suddenly Geraldstopped him. 

"That might be the person we are looking for!" he exclaimed. "I mean thedescription you've just read out--that of the Englishman?"

"Oh no, monsieur! I assure you that the body here described is that of aquite young man. " And as the American looked at him doubtfully, he added, "But still, if you wish to make absolutely sure I will make out a permit;and madame can stay here while you go across to the Morgue. " Again helooked pityingly at Mrs. Dampier. 

Nancy shook her head. "Tell him I mean to go too, " she said quietly. 

The man looked at her with an odd expression. "I should not myself care totake my wife or my sister to the Morgue, monsieur. Believe me her husbandis not there. Do try and dissuade the poor lady. " As he spoke he avertedhis eyes from Nancy's flushed face. 

Gerald Burton hesitated: it was really kind of this good fellow to feel somuch for a stranger's distress. 

"Won't you stay here and let me go alone to that place? I think you cantrust me. You see there is only one body there which in any way answers tothe description. "

"Yes, I quite understand that, but I'd rather go too. " Her lips quivered. "You see you've never seen Jack, Mr. Burton. "

"I'm afraid this lady is quite determined to go too, " said the youngAmerican in a low voice; and without making any further objection, theFrenchman filled in a form and silently handed it to Gerald Burton. 

And then something happened which was perhaps more untoward and strangethan Gerald realised. 

He and Mrs. Dampier were already well started across the great sunny spacein front of Notre Dame, when suddenly he felt himself tapped on theshoulder by the man from whom they had just parted. 

"Monsieur, monsieur!" said the French official breathlessly, "I forgot amost important point. Visitors to the Morgue are not allowed to see all thebodies exposed in our mortuary. When the place was closed to the public wewent from one extreme to the other. The man whose description you thinkapproximates to that of the gentleman you are looking for is Number 4. Tellthe guardian to show you Number 4. "

Then he turned on his heel, without awaiting the other's thanks; and as hewalked away, the Frenchman said aloud, not once but many times, "Pauvrepetite dame!" And then again and again, "Paume petite dame!"

But his conscience was clear. He had done his very best to prevent thatobstinate young American subjecting the "poor little lady" to the horribleordeal she was about to go through. Once more he spoke aloud--"They have noimagination--none at all--these Yankees!" he muttered, shrugging hisshoulders. 

CHAPTER VI

The janitor of the Morgue, remembering Gerald Burton's five-franc piece, and perchance looking forward to another rond, was wreathed in smiles. 

Eagerly he welcomed the two strangers into the passage, and carefully heclosed the great doors behind them. 

"A little minute, " he said, smiling happily. "Only one little minute! Thetrifling formality of showing your permit to the gentleman in the officemust be gone through, and then I myself will show monsieur and madameeverything there is to be seen. "

"We do not wish to see everything, " said Gerald Burton sharply. "We simplywish to see--" he hesitated--"body Number 4--" he lowered his voice, butNancy understood enough French to know what it was that he said. 

With a blind, instinctive gesture she put out her hand, and Gerald Burtongrasped it firmly, and for the first time a look of pity and of sympathycame across the janitor's face. 

Tiens! tiens! Then it was true after all? These young people (he now tookthem for a brother and sister) were here on business, not, as he hadsupposed, on pleasure. 

"Come in and wait here, " he said gravely. "This is the doctors' room, butmadame can sit here for a moment while the formalities are gone through. "

He flung open a door, and showed them into a curious, old-fashioned lookingsitting-room, strangely unlike the waiting-room which would have been foundattached, say, to an American or British mortuary. 

An ornate writing-table filled up one corner of the room, and, opposite thetwo windows, covering the whole of the blank wall, was a narrow glass caserunning from floor to ceiling. 

From this case young Burton quickly averted his eyes, for it was filledwith wax models of heads which might have been modelled from the denizensof Dante's Inferno. 

"I'm afraid I must now leave you for a moment, " he said gently; "sit overhere, Mrs. Dampier, and look out on the river. "

And Nancy obeyed with dull submission. She gazed on the bright, movingpanorama before her, aware, in a misty, indifferent way, that the view wasbeautiful, that Jack would have thought it so. 

This bend of the Seine is always laden with queer, picturesque craft, andjust below the window by which she sat was moored a flat-bottomed bargewhich evidently served as dwelling place for a very happy little family. One end of the barge had been turned into a kind of garden, there was evena vine-covered arbour, under which two tiny children were now playing someabsorbing game. 

And this glimpse of ordinary normal life gradually brought a feeling ofpeace, almost of comfort, to Nancy's sore heart. She wondered if she wouldever be happy again--happy as those little children playing outside werehappy, without a thought of care in the world: that had been the kind ofsimple, unquestioning happiness she too had thoughtlessly enjoyed till thelast three days. 

When Gerald Burton came back he was glad rather than grieved to see thattears were running down her face. 

But a moment later, as they followed their guide down a humid, dark passageher tears stopped, and a look of pinched terror came into her eyes. 

Suddenly there fell on their ears loud, whirring, jarring sounds. 

"What's that?" cried Nancy in a loud voice. Her nerves were taut withsuspense, quivering with fear of what she was about to see. 

And the janitor, as if he understood her question, turned roundreassuringly. "Only our refrigerating machines, madame. We think themwonderfully quiet, considering. They whirr on night and day, they are neverstilled. As for me--" he added jovially--"I would miss the noise very much. But as I lie in bed listening to the sound I know that all is well. Itwould be a very serious thing indeed for us if the machines stopped, evenfor ten minutes--" he shook his head mysteriously. 

Nancy breathed a little more easily. She had not understood what it wasexactly that he had said, but his voice had sounded cheerful and kind: andshe remained for a while ignorant of the meaning and object of the machinesby which they passed quickly in a great room filled with moving wheels, and, even on this hot June day, full of icy breaths. 

As they came to the end of the engine-room their guide turned round andgave the young American a quick, warning look. "C'est ici, " he said, underhis breath. And Gerald stepped quickly in front of Mrs. Dampier. 

"Is what we are going to see very horrible?" he whispered hurriedly. "Iwish this lady to be spared as far as may be from seeing anythingespecially painful. "

"As to horrible--well, it depends, monsieur, on what is thought horrible! Agood many of my pensioners have been dangerous customers in their time--butnow? Fortunately, monsieur, the dead cannot bite!" and he smiled at his owngrim joke. 

Gerald Burton shuddered involuntarily, but as he and Nancy followed the manfrom the engine-room he gave a sigh of relief, for they had emerged into awide, airy shed. 

The place looked like a workshop of sorts, for it was lined, on one side, with what looked like gigantic chests of drawers, painted black; whilestanding about on the stone pavement were long white deal packing cases. Over in a corner was a black box, of which the lid was loose. 

"You said Number 4, monsieur?" said the man in a business-like tone. "Well, I will get you out Number 4. Kindly stand just over there--not in thesunlight, that might prevent your seeing clearly. " He added, speaking farmore gently and kindly than he had yet done, "Madame must not befrightened. It will be all over in a moment. "

Gerald looked down at his companion. Her face seemed to have become quitesmall, like that of a child, but the pupils of her eyes had dilated: as shestared up at him fearfully he likened them, in his heart, to deepunfathomable pools. 

She came close up to him, and then, without stopping to think, simplyfollowing a natural instinct, he put his arm round her shoulder; so wouldhe have done to his sister in a moment of similar distress. 

"Don't be too frightened, " he whispered, "it will all be over very, verysoon, Mrs. Dampier. Somehow I don't think you have anything to fear. "

"Please stand over in that corner, " said the janitor, pointing towards theblack box Gerald Burton had noticed when they had first come into the yard. "We have a poor lady in that box who was only brought in an hour ago! Shewas run over, killed by an omnibus--such a pity, for she is such a nicefresh-looking lady: not more than about thirty years of age. We expect herfamily any moment; they will know her by her wedding ring, and by a littlelocket with a child's hair in it. "

Even as he was speaking the man was opening a small, inconspicuous door, situated close to that which gave into the refrigerating-engine room. 

Gerald's arm slipped down from Nancy's shoulder. She had put out her handgropingly, as a blind child might have done, and he was now holding thepoor little hand tightly clasped in his firm grasp. 

There came a harsh rumbling sound, and then there was wheeled out into theopen yard an inclined plane hitched up on huge iron wheels. To the inclinedplane was bound a swathed, rigid figure. 

"Here is Number 4, " said the man in a subdued tone. "I will uncover hisface so that madame and monsieur may see if it is the gentleman for whomthey are seeking. "

A strange tremor shot through Gerald Burton. He was shaken with a varietyof sensations of which the predominant feeling was that of repulsion. Washe at last about to gaze at the dead face of the man who, with the oneparamount exception of that same man's wife, had filled his mind andthoughts to the exclusion of all else since he had first heard the name ofJohn Dampier? Was he now to make acquaintance with the stranger who had yetin so curious and sinister a way become his familiar?

Nancy gently withdrew her hand from his: leaning slightly forward, shegazed at the swathed stark form which might possibly--so much she had toldherself at once--be that of John Dampier. 

Very slowly the man drew off that portion of the sheet which covered theupper part of the body, and, as he did so, Gerald Burton heard the womanstanding by his side utter a long, fluttering sigh of relief. 

Thank God it was not Jack--not her Jack!

The fine, well-cut face was that of a man about Gerald Burton's own age. The features were stilled in the awful immobility of death: but for thatimmobility, the dead man lying there before them might have been asleep. 

"An Englishman, " said the janitor thoughtfully, "or perchance an American?A finely built fellow, monsieur. A true athlete. Not a wound, not a touch!Just dropped dead yesterday afternoon in a public gymnasium. "

"How extraordinary it is, " observed Gerald Burton in a low voice, "that hehas not yet been claimed by his friends--"

"Oh no, monsieur, not extraordinary at all! We in this country write to ourchildren every day when we are separated from them--that is if we canafford the stamps. Not so English or American people. They think theirchildren are sure to be all right. In about a fortnight we shall haveenquiries for Number 4, hardly before then. "

"And by that time, " said Gerald slowly, "I suppose the poor fellow willhave been buried. "

"Oh no, monsieur--" the man laughed, as if the other's remark struck him asbeing really very funny. "Why, we keep some of them as long as fifteenmonths! Those drawers are full of them--" he pointed to the long blackchests which lined one side of the shed. "Would monsieur like to see someof my pensioners? I have men, women, ay, and children too, cosily tuckedaway in there. "

A low exclamation of horror escaped from Nancy Dampier's lips. She turnedashily pale. At last she understood what it was the janitor was saying. .. . 

The man looked at her with kindly concern. "Tiens!" he said, "isn't thatstrange? It happens again and again! People like madame come here--quitequiet, quite brave; and then, though overjoyed at not finding the personthey came to seek--they suddenly shudder and turn pale; sometimes I haveknown them faint!"

"Kindly let us out by the shortest and quickest way, " said Gerald quickly. 

"Pardon, monsieur, the law exacts that Number 4 must remain in yourpresence for a quarter of an hour. " The man shrugged his shoulders. "Yousee some people, especially ladies, are apt to think afterwards that theymay have made a mistake: that their sight was at fault, and so on. That iswhy this tiresome regulation is now in force. I should like to obligemonsieur, but to do so would get me into trouble. "

He stopped speaking, and stood waiting, at attention. 

And then, as they stood there in silence, Gerald, looking beyond the still, swathed figure stretched out before him, allowed his eyes to rest on theseblack boxes, each containing one poor tenantless shell of humanity, fromwhich the unquenchable spirit of man had been suddenly, violently expelled:and as he looked, he missed something that should have been there--thesign, the symbol, of the cross. 

A flood of memories came surging through his mind--memories of childishprayers learnt at his mother's knee, of certain revisions which time hadbrought to his first innocent, unquestioning faith. And with those memoriescame anger and a sense of humiliation. For there was nothing, absolutelynothing, to show that these boxes before him held what had once been thedwelling-place of that daily miracle, the sentient soul of man. Thesedefenceless dead had been subjected to a last, continuous, intolerableinsult; in their flesh he felt that his own humanity was degraded. Here wasnothing to separate the human dead from the beasts of the field; theseboxes would have looked the same had they held merely the bodies of animalsprepared for the inquisitive, probing research of science. 

His young imagination, strung to the highest pitch, penetrated thoseshuttered receptacles and showed him on the face of each occupant thatstrange ironic smile with which the dead husk of man seems often to betraythe full knowledge now possessed by the spirit which has fled. That riddleof existence, of which through the ages philosophers and kings had soughtthe key, was now an open book to all those who lay here in the stillmajesty of death. Yes, they could well afford to smile--to smile at thelittleness which denied to their tenements of flesh the smallest symbol ofbelief that death was not the end of all. 

His companion had also marked the absence of any sign of the Christian'shope in this house of death, and through her mind there ran the confusedrecollection of holy words:--

"It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption. It is sown indishonour; it is raised in glory. 

"Behold, I shew you a mystery; we shall not all sleep. .. . 

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"

Comfortable words! They seemed, merely by their flight through the tenseganglia of her brain, to break into the awful loneliness of these recenttabernacles of the spirit, and bestow on them the benison denied them inits pride by the human family from whose bosom they had been torn. 

Then swiftly her mind turned to the thought of those who were stillwatching and waiting, in that misery of suspense of which she now knew eachpang. Every one--surely every one--of these dead who now surroundedher, --silent, solitary, had been loved--for love comes in some guise to allpoor human creatures. Those mouths, cheeks, eyes, those rippling waves ofwoman's hair, had been kissed--ah, how often. The perishing flesh had beenclasped heart to heart. .. . 

There came over her soul a great rush of pity for those others, the vastand scattered company, mourning, mourning, and yet reaching out in wildhope and desire for their loved ones, whose bodies were all the while here. They did not know, yet hither came winging unerringly, like flights ofhoming doves, their myriad prayers, their passionate loving thoughts andwistful thirsty longing for one word, one kiss, one touch of the hand. .. . Surely such thoughts and prayers sanctified this charnel-house. 

She herself was of that company--that company who were not sure. Some, doubtless, obstinate, refused to believe that death in any form hadovertaken the missing; others feared to come here and look. She had notfeared. .. . 

The janitor spoke to her, and she started violently. 

"You are quite convinced, madame, that Number 4 is not he whom you seek?"

These words, that question, evidently embodied a formula the man was boundto use. 

Mrs. Dampier bent her head. 

"You, monsieur, also have no doubt?"

"None at all, " said Gerald briefly. 

With a sudden movement the man put the sinister carriage in motion, butwhen he had got it close to the door of the mortuary, he stopped amoment:--"We have many compliments on our brancard, " he said cheerfully. "It is very ingenious, is it not? You see the wheels are so large that amere touch pushes it backwards and forwards. It is quite easy to wheel backinto place again. "

Gerald Burton took out a five-franc piece. He left Nancy Dampier standing, an infinitely pathetic, forlorn little figure, in the sunlit portion of theyard, and approached the man. 

"We must go now, " he said hurriedly. "I suppose it is quite easy to leaveby the way we came in--through the engine-room?"

"One moment, monsieur, one moment! Before showing you out I must put Number4 back with his other companions. There is no fear of his being lonely, poor man! We had five brought in this morning. "

They had not long to wait before the concierge joined them again. 

"Won't monsieur and madame stay and just see everything else there is to beseen?" he asked eagerly. "We have the most interesting relics of greatcriminals, notably of Troppman. Troppman was before my time, monsieur, butthe day that his seven victims were publicly exposed there--" he pointedwith his thumb to the inconspicuous door through which he had just wheeledNumber 4--"ah, that was a red-letter day for the Morgue! Eighteen thousandpeople came to gaze on those seven bodies. And it was lucky, monsieur, thatin those days we were open to the public, for it was the landlord of theirhotel who recognised the poor creatures. "

He was now preceding his two visitors through the operating theatre whereare held the post-mortems. From thence he led them into the hall where theyhad first gained admission. "Well, monsieur, if you really do not care tosee our relics--?" He opened the great door through which so few living menand women ever pass. 

Gerald Burton and Nancy Dampier walked out into the sunlight, and the lastthing they saw of the Morgue was the smiling face of the concierge--it wasnot often that he received ten francs for doing his simple duty. 

"Au plaisir de vous revoir, monsieur, madame: au plaisir de vous revoir!"he said gaily. And as the courteous old French mode of adieu fell upontheir ears, Gerald Burton felt an awful sensation of horror, of oppression, yes and of dread, steal over him. 

Nancy Dampier, looking up at her companion, suddenly forgot herself. "Mr. Burton, " she exclaimed, her voice full of concern, "I'm afraid this hasmade you feel ill? I oughtn't to have let you come here!" And it was shewho in her clear, low voice told the cabman the address of the HôtelSaint Ange. 

Gerald Burton muttered a word of half-angry excuse. He was keenly ashamedof what he took to be his lack of manliness. 

But during the weeks, aye and the months that followed he found himselfconstantly haunted by the gentle, ironic words of farewell uttered by theconcierge of the Morgue: "Au plaisir de vous revoir, monsieur, madame: auplaisir de vous revoir!"

CHAPTER VII

The American abroad has a touching faith, first, in the might and power ofhis country to redress all wrongs, and secondly, in the personal prestigeof his Ambassador. 

As a rule this faith is justified by works, but in the special and verypeculiar case of John Dampier, Senator Burton was destined to meet withdisappointment. 

With keen vexation he learnt that the distinguished and genial individualwho just then represented the great sister Republic in Paris, and on whomhe himself had absolutely counted for advice and help, for they were oldfriends and allies, had taken sick leave for three months. 

Paris, during an Exhibition Year, seems mysteriously to lose the wonderfulclimate which a certain British Minister for Foreign Affairs once declaredto be the only one that suited every diplomat's constitution!

The Senator and his daughter drove on from the American Embassy to theAmerican Consulate, and it was with a feeling of considerable satisfactionthat they were shown by a courteous janitor into the pleasant, airywaiting-room where a large engraving of Christopher Columbus, and a hugephotograph of the Washington Monument, welcome the wandering American. 

Even in this waiting-room there was an air of cheerful activity, a constantcoming and going, which showed that whatever might be the case with theEmbassy, the Consulate, at any rate, was very much alive. 

"Mr. Senator Burton? Glad to see you, sir! What can we do for you?" Thewords fell with a cheering, refreshing sound on the Senator's ears, thoughthe speaker went on a trifle less cordially, "We are simply overwhelmedwith business just now! You can imagine--but no, no one could imagine, thelength, the breadth, the scope of what people think to be our duties in anExhibition Year!"

The distinguished visitor and his daughter were being shown into theConsul's own pleasant study. Now this spacious, comfortable apartment ishung with fine engravings of the White House and of the Capitol, andSenator Burton felt a thrill of yearning as well as of pride when he gazedat these familiar, stately buildings which looked so homelike and dear whenseen amid alien surroundings. 

And as he sat down, and prepared to state his business, there suddenly cameover this kindly American a curious feeling of misgiving, of self-rebuke. Had he remained at home in Washington, content with all his familiar dutiesand pleasures, he would never have been brought into this association witha strange, unpleasant life-story. 

But he soon shook off this feeling of misgiving, and as the curious tale hehad to tell was being listened to, kindly and patiently, he felt gladindeed that he had at last found a fellow-countryman in whom to confide, and on whose advice he could rely. 

But when Senator Burton had finished speaking, the American Consul shookhis head. "I only wish we could help you!" he exclaimed. "But we can donothing where a British subject is concerned. We've quite enough to dolooking after those of our own people who disappear in Paris! Would you besurprised to learn, Mr. Senator, that four of our countrymen havecompletely vanished within the last two days?" And as Daisy uttered alittle exclamation of incredulous dismay, "Don't feel so badly about it, mydear young lady, I quite expect all four of them to turn up again, afterhaving given us and their friends a great deal of useless, expensive worry. "

"What I really want, " said the Senator earnestly, "is not your officialassistance, but a word of practical advice. What is it this unfortunateyoung lady, Mrs. Dampier, ought to do? We've tried the Commissaire dePolice of the quarter, and he's perfectly useless: in fact my son, who'sseen him twice, doesn't believe a word he says. "

The Consul gave what Senator Burton felt to be a very French shrug of theshoulders. 

"That don't surprise me! As regards the lower branch of the service thepolice here is very understaffed. The only thing for you to do is to takethis poor lady to the British Consulate. They are driven to death there, just as we are here, and they'll naturally snatch at any excuse to avoid anextra job. But of course if this Mrs. Dampier is, as you say, a Britishsubject--well, they're bound to do something for her. But you may believeme when I say, Mr. Senator, that there's probably nothing really mysteriousabout the case. You may find this Mr. Dampier at the hotel when you returnthere. It may interest you to learn"--he hesitated, and glanced at hisyoung countrywoman--"that among our countrymen who vanish, I mean in atemporary way, there are more married men than bachelors. "

And with that enigmatic pronouncement the genial Consul courteously andsmilingly dismissed Senator Burton and his daughter. 

The same afternoon saw the Senator and Mrs. Dampier on their way to theBritish Consulate. 

The day before Nancy had been unwilling to leave the hotel for even theshortest space of time, now she seemed sunk into apathetic despair--andyet, as they drove along together, the Senator still doubted, stillwondered in the depths of his heart, whether the lovely young woman nowsitting silent by his side, was not making a fool of him, as she hadcertainly done of his two children. 

He caught himself again and again thinking of her as "Nancy;" already hisdaughter and she were on Christian-name terms with one another; and as forGerald, he had put everything else aside to devote himself entirely tosolving the mystery of John Dampier's disappearance. 

At last they reached the British Consulate, and the American could not helpfeeling a thrill of pride as he mentally compared the Office where he hadbeen that morning and that which represented, in this shabby side street, the commercial might and weight of the British Empire. 

The waiting-room into which they were shown was a gloomy apartment lookingon to an inner courtyard, and Senator Burton's card did not produce themagic effect it had done at the American Consulate; in fact he and hiscompanion had to take their turn with a crowd of other people, and the timethey were kept waiting seemed very long. 

At last, however, they were ushered into the study of the courteous Britonwhose difficult and sometimes exasperating duty it is to look after therights and interests of the motley world composed of those Englishmen andEnglishwomen who make a short or long sojourn in Paris. Once they were inhis presence nothing could have been kinder and more considerate than theBritish Consul's reception of the American Senator and his companion. 

In the Consular branch of the Diplomatic Service the post of Consul in thegreater cities of the civilised world is almost invariably given to anex-member of the Diplomatic Corps--to one, that is, who is a shrewd man ofthe world rather than a trained business official, and Senator Burton feltit to be a comfort indeed to deal with such a one rather than with an acutebut probably conventionally-minded man of commercial experience. 

The Consul was moved by Mrs. Dampier's youth, her beauty, her evident, ifsubdued bewilderment and distress. She told her story very clearly andsimply, but to the Senator's excited and yes, it must be admitted, suspicious fancy, she seemed to slur over, as of no importance, theextraordinary discrepancy between her own and the Poulains' account of whathad happened on the night of her own and her husband's arrival in Paris. 

The Consul asked but few questions, but those were pertinent and to thepoint. 

"I am glad, Mrs. Dampier, that you did not come to me yesterday, " he saidat last, "for, thanks, as I understand, to this gentleman, you have doneeverything which I should have had to advise you to do. "

He then turned more particularly to his American visitor:--"I suppose youhave now quite convinced yourself that no kind of street accident befellMr. Dampier yesterday morning?"

The Senator shook his head dubiously; there was a look of hesitation, ofunease, on his face. 

"Perhaps it would be as well, " said the Consul suavely, "for Mrs. Dampierto go and wait awhile in the next room. Then you and I, Mr. Senator, mightgo into the matter more thoroughly?"

Unsuspiciously Nancy Dampier fell in with the plan. 

And then, at last, Senator Burton was able to open out his heart, and, asthe British Consul listened to the American's version of all that had takenplace, when he realised how entirely the story of this young lady, whocalled herself Mrs. Dampier, was uncorroborated, his face became graverand graver. 

"From the little opportunity I have had of judging, she impresses me asbeing a truthful woman, " he said musingly. "Still, what I now know puts avery different complexion on the story as told me just now by her. "

"That is exactly what I feel, " said the Senator sighing. "From somethingyou said just now I gather that you have heard of this Mr. John Dampier?"

"Why, yes, indeed I have--I know his name as being that of a distinguishedEnglish artist living in Paris; but he has never troubled me individually, and I can answer for it that he is very little known to our colony here. Heevidently lives only amongst the French painters and their set--which meansthat to all intents and purposes he has become a Frenchman!" The Consulshrugged his shoulders--racial prejudice dies hard. 

He looked doubtfully at his visitor:--"You see, Mr. Senator, if this lady'stale is true, if the poor little woman is a three weeks' bride, Mr. Dampier's disappearance may mean a good many things, any one of which isbound to cause her pain and distress. I do not think it likely that therehas been any kind of foul play. If, as Mrs. Dampier asserts, he had neithermoney nor jewels in his possession, we may dismiss that possibility fromour minds. "

"If anything of that sort has happened--I mean, if there has been foulplay, " said Senator Burton firmly, "then I would stake my life that neitherof the Poulains are in any way associated with it. "

"Quite so. Still, as Mrs. Dampier has appealed to me very properly forhelp, these hotel people--if they are as worthy as you believe them tobe--will not mind consenting to an informal interrogatory from one of myclerks. I have here a sharp young fellow who knows English as well as hedoes French. I'll send him back with you. He can take down the Poulains'story, even cross-examine them in a friendly manner. Mrs. Dampier mightalso give him her version of what took place. "

Senator Burton uttered a hesitating assent. He knew only too well that thePoulains would greatly resent the proposed interrogatory. 

"One word more, Mr. Senator. If there is no news of this Mr. John Dampierby to-morrow, you must persuade Mrs. Dampier to write, or even to telegraphfor her friends. For one thing, it isn't at all fair that all this troubleshould fall on an entire stranger, on one not even her own countryman! Icannot help seeing, too, that you do not altogether believe in Mrs. Dampierand her story. You can't make up your mind--is not that so?"

The American Senator nodded, rather shamefacedly. 

"I might advise you to go to the Préfecture de Police, nay, I mightcommunicate with them myself, but I feel that in the interests of thisyoung lady it would be better to go slow. Mr. Dampier may return assuddenly, as unexpectedly, as he went. And then he would not thank us, mydear sir, for having done anything to turn the Paris Police searchlight onhis private life. "

The Consul got up and held out his hand. "For your sake, as well as forthat of my countrywoman, I hope most sincerely that you will find Mr. Dampier safe and sound when you get back to the Hôtel Saint Ange. But ifthe mystery still endures to-morrow, then you really must persuade thispoor young lady to send for one of her relatives--preferably, I need hardlysay, a man. "

"At what time shall I expect your clerk?" asked Senator Burton. "I think Iought to prepare the Poulains. "

"No, there I think you're wrong! Far better let him go back with you now, and hear what they have to say. Let him also get a properly signedstatement from Mrs. Dampier. Then he can come back here and type out hisreport and her statement for reference. That can do no harm, and may in thefuture be of value. "

He accompanied the American Senator to the door. "I wish I could help youmore, " he said cordially. "Believe me, I appreciate more than I can sayyour extraordinary kindness to my 'subject. ' I shall, of course, be glad toknow how you get on. But oh, if you knew how busy we are just now! When Ithink of how we are regarded--of how I read, only the other day, that aConsul is the sort of good fellow one likes to make comfortable in a nicelittle place--I wish the man who wrote that could have my 'nice littleplace' for a week, during an Exhibition Year! I think he would soon changehis mind. "

Mrs. Dampier was not present at the, to Senator Burton, odious half-hourwhich followed their return to the Hôtel Saint Ange. 

At first the French hotel-keeper and his wife refused to say anything tothe Consular official. Then, when they were finally persuaded to answer hisquestions, they did so as curtly and disagreeably as possible. MadamePoulain also made a great effort to prevent her nephew, young Jules, frombeing brought into the matter. But to her wrath and bitter consternation, he, as well as her husband and herself, was made to submit to a regularexamination and cross-examination as to what had followed Mrs. Dampier'sarrival at the Hôtel Saint Ange. 

"Why don't you send for the police?" she cried at last. "We should be onlytoo glad to lay all the facts before them!"

And as the young Frenchman, after his further interview with Nancy, wasbeing speeded on his way by the Senator, "I'm blessed if I know what tobelieve!" he observed with a wink. "It's the queerest story I've ever comeacross; and as for the Poulains, it's the first time I've ever known Frenchpeople to say they would like to see the police brought into their privateaffairs! One would swear that all the parties concerned were telling thetruth, but I thought that boy, those people's nephew, did know somethingmore than he said. "

CHAPTER VIII

The third morning brought no news of the missing man, and Senator Burton, noting Gerald's and Daisy's preoccupied, anxious faces, began to wonder ifhis life would ever flow in pleasant, normal channels again. 

The son and daughter whom he held so dear, whose habitual companionship wasso agreeable to him, were now wholly absorbed in Mrs. Dampier and heraffairs. They could think of nothing else, and, when they were alone withtheir father, they talked of nothing else. 

The Senator remembered with special soreness what had happened theafternoon before, just after he had dismissed the clerk of the BritishConsul. Feeling an eager wish to forget, as far as might be for a littlewhile, the mysterious business in which they were all so untowardlyconcerned, he had suggested to Daisy that they might go and spend a quiethour in the Art section of the Exhibition. But to his great discomfiture, his daughter had turned on him with a look of scorn, almost of contempt:

"Father! Do you mean me to go out and leave poor little Nancy alone in herdreadful suspense and grief--just that I may enjoy myself?"

And the Senator had felt ashamed of his selfishness. Yes, it had been mostunfeeling of him to want to go and gaze on some of the few masterpiecesAmerican connoisseurs have left in Europe, while this tragedy--for herealised that whatever the truth might be it was a tragedy--was stillin being. 

It was good to know that thanks to the British Consul's word of advice hisway, to-day, was now clear. The time had come when he must advise Mrs. Dampier to send for some member of her family. Without giving his childrenan inkling of what he was about to say to their new friend, Senator Burtonrequested Nancy, in the presence of the two others, to come down into thegarden of the Hôtel Saint Ange in order that they might discuss thesituation. 

As they crossed the sun-flecked cheerful courtyard Nancy pressedunconsciously nearer her companion, and averted her eyes from the kitchenwindow where the hotel-keeper and his wife seemed to spend so much of theirspare time, gazing forth on their domain, watching with uneasy suspicionall those who came and went from the Burtons' apartments. 

As the young Englishwoman passed through into the peaceful garden whosecharm and old-world sweetness had been one of the lures which had drawnJohn Dampier to what was now to her a fatal place, she felt a sensation ofterrible desolation come over her, the more so that she was now halfconscious that Senator Burton, great as was his kindness, kept his judgmentin suspense. 

They sat down on a wooden bench, and for awhile neither spoke. "Have youfound out anything?" she asked at last in a low voice. "I think by yourmanner that you have found out something, Mr. Burton--something you don'twish to say to me before the two others?"

He looked at her, surprised. "No, " he said sincerely, "that is not so atall. I have found out nothing, Mrs. Dampier--would that I had! But I feelit only right to tell you that the moment has come when you shouldcommunicate with your friends. The British Consul told me that if we werestill without news, still in suspense, this morning, he would stronglyadvise that you send for someone to join you in Paris. Surely you have somenear relation who would come to you?"

Nancy shook her head. "No. I daresay it may seem strange to you, SenatorBurton, but I have no near relations at all. I was the only child of afather and mother who, in their turn, were only children. I have some verydistant cousins, a tribe of acquaintances, a few very kind friends--" herlips quivered "but no one--no one of whom I feel I could ask that sortof favour. "

Senator Burton glanced at her in dismay. She looked very wan and fragilesitting there; whatever the truth, he could not but feel deeply sorryfor her. 

Suddenly she turned to him, and an expression of relief came over her sadeyes and mouth. "There is someone, Mr. Burton, someone I ought to havethought of before! There is a certain Mr. Stephens who was my father'sfriend as well as his solicitor; and he has always managed all my moneymatters. I'll write and ask Mr. Stephens if he can come to me. He was morethan kind at the time of my marriage, though I'm afraid that he and Jackdidn't get on very well together. "

She looked up in Senator Burton's face with a bewildered, pleading look, and he suddenly realised how difficult a task such a letter would be toher, supposing, that is, that the story she told, the story in which evennow the Senator only half believed--were true. 

"I'll go up and write the letter now, " she said, and together they bothwent, once more, indoors. 

But Gerald Burton, when he heard of the proposed letter to Mrs. Dampier'slawyer, made an abrupt suggestion which both the Senator and Nancy welcomedwith eagerness. 

"Why shouldn't we telephone to this Mr. Stephens?" he asked. "That wouldsave a day, and it would be far easier to explain to him all that hashappened by word of mouth than in a letter--" He turned to Nancy, and hisvoice unconsciously softened: "If you will trust me, I will explain thesituation to your friend, Mrs. Dampier. "

The father and son's drive to the Central Paris-London-Telephone office wascuriously silent, though both the older and the younger man felt full ofunwonted excitement. 

"Now, at last, I am on the track of the truth!" such was the Senator'ssecret thought. But he would not have been very much surprised had no suchname as that of Davies P. Stephens, Solicitor, 58 Lincoln's Inn Fields, appeared in the London Telephone Directory. But yes, there the name was, and Gerald showed it to his father with a gleam of triumph. 

"You will want patience--a good deal of patience, " said the attendantmournfully. 

Gerald Burton smiled. He was quite used to long-distance telephoning athome. "All right!" he said cheerily. "I've plenty of patience!"

But though the young man claimed to have plenty of patience he felt far tooexcited, far too strung up and full of suspense, for the due exercise ofthat difficult virtue. 

The real reason why he had suggested this telephone message, instead of aletter or a telegram, was that he longed for his father's suspicions to beset at rest. 

Gerald Burton resented keenly, far more keenly than did his sister, theSenator's lack of belief in Nancy Dampier's story. He himself would havestaked his life on the truthfulness of this woman whom he had only knownthree days. 

At last the sharp, insistent note of the telephone bell rang out, and hestept up into the call-box. 

"Mr. Stephens' office?" He spoke questioningly: and after what seemed along pause the answer came, muffled but audible. "Yes, yes! This is Mr. Stephens' office. Who is it wants us from Paris?" The question was put in aCockney voice, and the London twang seemed exaggerated by its transmissionover those miles and miles of wire by land, under the sea, and then byland again. 

"I want to speak to Mr. Stephens himself, " said Gerald Burton verydistinctly. 

"Mr. Stephens? Yes, he's here all right. I'll take a message. "

"Make him come himself. "

"Yes, he's here. Give me your message--" the words were again a littlemuffled. 

"I can't send a message. You must fetch him. " Gerald Burton's stock ofpatience was giving way. Again there was an irritating pause, but it wasbroken at last. 

"Who is it? I can't fetch him if you won't say who you are. "

"I am speaking on behalf of Mrs. Dampier, " said Gerald reluctantly. Somehowhe hated uttering Nancy's name to this tiresome unknown. 

And then began an absurd interchange of words at cross purposes. 

"Mr. Larkspur?"

"No, " said Gerald. "Mrs. Dampier. "

"Yes, " said the clerk. "Yes, I quite understand. L. For London--"

Gerald lost his temper--"D. For damn!" he shouted, "Dampier. "

And then, at last, with a shrill laugh that sounded strange and eerie, theclerk repeated, "Dampier--Mr. John Dampier? Yes, sir. What can we dofor you?"

"Mrs. Dampier!"

"Mrs. Dampier? Yes, sir. I'll fetch Mr. Stephens. " The clerk's voice hadaltered; it had become respectful, politely enquiring. 

And at last with intense relief, Gerald Burton heard a low clear, incisivevoice uttering the words: "Is that Mrs. Dampier herself speaking?"

Instinctively Gerald's own voice lowered. "No, I am speaking for Mrs. Dampier. "

The English lawyer's voice hardened, or so it seemed to the young American. It became many degrees colder. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Dampier. Yes? Whatcan I do for you?"

And as Gerald, taken oddly aback by the unseen man's very natural mistake, did not answer for a moment or two:

"Nothing wrong with Nancy, I hope?"

The anxious question sounded very, very clear. 

"There is something very wrong with Mrs. Dampier--can you hear me clearly?"

"Yes, yes What is wrong with her?"

"Mrs. Dampier is in great trouble. Mr. Dampier has disappeared. "

The strange thing which had happened was told in those four words, butGerald Burton naturally went on to explain, or rather to try to explain, the extraordinary situation which had arisen, to Nancy's lawyer and friend. 

Mr. Stephens did not waste any time in exclamations of surprise or pity. Once he had grasped the main facts, his words were few and to the point. 

"Tell Mrs. Dampier, " he said, speaking very distinctly, "that if she has nonews of her husband by Friday I will come myself to Paris. I cannot do sobefore. Meanwhile, I strongly advise that she, or preferably you for her, communicate with the police--try and see the Prefect of Police himself. Imyself once obtained much courteous help from the Paris Prefect of Police. "

Gerald stept down from the stuffy, dark telephone box. He turned to theattendant:--"How much do I owe you?" he asked briefly. 

"A hundred and twenty francs, Monsieur, " said the man suavely. 

The Senator drew near. "That was an expensive suggestion of yours, Gerald, "he observed smiling, as the other put down six gold pieces. And then hesaid, "Well?"

"Well, father, there's not much to tell. This Mr. Stephens will come overon Friday if there's still no news of Mr. Dampier by then. He wants us togo to the Prefecture of Police. He says we ought to try and get at thePrefect of Police himself. "

There came a long pause: the two were walking along a crowded street. Suddenly Gerald stopped and turned to the Senator. "Father, " he saidimpulsively, "I suppose that now, at last, you do believe Mrs. Dampier's story?"

The young man spoke with a vehemence and depth of feeling which disturbedhis father. What a good thing it was that this English lawyer was coming torelieve them all from a weight and anxiety which was becoming, to theSenator himself, if not to the two younger people, quite intolerable. 

"Well, " he said at last, "I am of course glad to know that everything, sofar, goes to prove that Mrs. Dampier's account of herself is true. "

"That being so, don't you think the Hôtel Saint Ange ought to be searched?"

"Searched?" repeated Senator Burton slowly. "Searched for what?"

"If I had charge of this business--I mean sole charge--the first thing Iwould do would be to have the Hôtel Saint Ange searched from top tobottom!" said Gerald vehemently. 

"Is that Mrs. Dampier's suggestion?"

"No, father, it's mine. I had a talk with that boy Jules last night, andI'm convinced he's lying. There's another thing I should like to do. Ishould like to go to the office of the 'New York Herald' and enlist theeditor's help. I would have done it long ago if this man Dampier had beenan American. "

"And you would have done a very foolish thing, my boy. " The Senator spokewith more dry decision than was his wont. "Come, come, Gerald, you and Imustn't quarrel over this affair! Let us think of the immediate thing todo. " He put his hand on his son's arm. 

"Yes, father?"

"I suppose that the first thing to do is to take this Mr. Stephens'advice?"

"Why, of course, father! Will you, or shall I, go to the Prefecture ofPolice?"

"Well, Gerald, I have bethought myself of that courteous President of theFrench Senate who wrote me such a pleasant note when we first arrived inParis this time. No doubt he would give me a personal introduction to thePrefect of Police. "

"Why, father, that's a first rate idea! Hadn't you better go right now andget it?"

"Yes, perhaps I had; and meanwhile you can tell the poor little woman thather friend will be here on Friday. "

"Yes, I will. And father? May I tell Daisy that now you agree with me aboutMrs. Dampier--that you no longer believe the Poulains' story?"

"No, " said Senator Burton a little sternly. "You are to say nothing of thesort, Gerald. I have only known this girl three days--I have known thePoulains nine years. Of course it's a great relief to me to learn that Mrs. Dampier's account of herself is true--so far as you've been able toascertain such a fact in a few minutes' conversation with an unknown manover the telephone--but that does not affect my good opinion of thePoulains. "

And on this the father and son parted, for the first time in their jointlives, seriously at odds the one with the other. 

"Give you an introduction to our Prefect of Police? Why, certainly!"

The white-haired President of the French Senate looked curiously at theAmerican gentleman who had sought him out at the early hour ofeleven o'clock. 

"You will find Monsieur Beaucourt a charming man, " he went on. "I hearnothing but good of the way he does his very difficult work. He is a typeto whom you are used in America, my dear Senator, but whom we perhaps toooften lack in France among those who govern us. Monsieur Beaucourt is astrong man--a man who takes his own line and sticks to it. I was told onlythe other day that crime had greatly diminished in our city since he becamePrefect. He is thoroughly trusted by his subordinates, and you can imaginewhat that means when one remembers that our beautiful Paris is the resortof all the international rogues of Europe. And if they tease us by theirpresence at ordinary times, you can imagine what it is like during anExhibition Year!"

CHAPTER IX

In all French public offices there is a strange mingling of the sordid andof the magnificent. 

The Paris Prefecture of Police is a huge, quadrangular building, containingan infinity of bare, and to tell the truth, shabby, airless rooms; yet whenSenator Burton had handed in his card and the note from the President ofthe French Senate, he was taken rapidly down a long corridor, and usheredinto a splendid apartment, of which the walls were hung with red velvet, and which might have been a reception room in an Italian Palace rather thanthe study of a French police official. 

"Monsieur le Préfet will be back from déjeuner in a few minutes, " said theman, softly closing the door. 

The Senator looked round him with a feeling of keen interest and curiosity. After the weary, baffling hours of fruitless effort in which he had spentthe last three days, it was more than pleasant to find himself at thefountainhead of reliable information. 

Since the far-off days when, as a boy, he had been thrilled by thebrilliant detective stories of which French writers, with the oneoutstanding exception of Poe, then had a monopoly, there had never fadedfrom Senator Burton's mind that first vivid impression of the power, themight, the keen intelligence, and yes, of the unscrupulousness, of theParis police. 

But now, having penetrated into the inner shrine of this awe-inspiringorganism, he naturally preferred to think of the secret autocratic powers, and of the almost uncanny insight of those to whom he was about to makeappeal. Surely they would soon probe the mystery of John Dampier'sdisappearance. 

The door opened suddenly, and the Paris Prefect of Police walked into theroom. He was holding Senator Burton's card, and the letter of introductionwith which that card had been accompanied, in his sinewy nervouslooking hand. 

Bowing, smiling, apologising with more earnestness than was necessary forthe few moments the American Senator had had to await his presence, thePrefect motioned his guest to a chair. 

"I am very pleased, " he said in courtly tones, "to put myself at thedisposal of a member of the American Senate. Ah, sir, your country is awonderful country! In a sense, the parent of France--for was not Americathe first great nation to become a Republic?"

Senator Burton bowed, a little awkwardly, in response to this flowerysentiment. 

He was telling himself that Monsieur Beaucourt was quite unlike the picturehe had mentally formed, from youth upwards, of the Paris Prefect of Police. 

There was nothing formidable, nothing for the matter of that in the leastawe-inspiring, about this tired, amiable-looking man. The Prefect was alsolacking in the alert, authoritative manner which the layman all the worldover is apt to associate with the word "police. "

Monsieur Beaucourt sat down behind his ornate buhl writing-table, andshooting out his right hand he pressed an electric bell. 

With startling suddenness, a panel disappeared noiselessly into the redvelvet draped wall, and in the aperture so formed a good-looking young manstood smiling. 

"My secretary, Monsieur le Sénateur--my secretary, who is also my nephew. "

The Senator rose and bowed. 

"André? Please say that I am not to be disturbed till this gentleman'svisit is concluded. " The young man nodded: and then he withdrew as quickly, as silently, as he had appeared; and the panel slipped noiselessly backbehind him. 

"And now tell me exactly what it is that you wish me to do for you, " saidthe Prefect, with a weary sigh, which was, however, softened by a pleasantsmile. "We are not as omnipotent as our enemies make us out to be, butstill we can do a good deal, and we could do a good deal more were it notfor the Press! Ah, Monsieur le Sénateur, that is the only thing I do notlike about your great country. Your American Press sets so bad, so verybad, an example to our poor old world!"

A thin streak of colour came into Monsieur Beaucourt's cheek, a gleam ofanger sparkled in his grey eyes. 

"Yes, greatly owing to the bad example set in America, and of late inEngland too, quite a number of misguided people nowadays go to the Pressbefore they come to us for redress! All too soon, " he shook a warningfinger, "they find they have entered a mouse-trap from which escape isimpossible. They rattle at the bars--but no, they are caught fast! Oncethey have brought those indefatigable, those indiscreet reporters on thescene, it is too late to draw back. They find all their most privateaffairs dragged into the light of day, and even we can do very little forthem then!"

Senator Burton nodded gravely. He wished his son were there to hear thesewords. 

"And now let us return to our muttons, " said the Prefect leaning forward. "I understand from the President of the Senate that you require my help ina rather delicate and mysterious matter. "

"I do not know that the matter is particularly delicate, though it iscertainly mysterious, " and then Senator Burton explained, in as few andclear words as possible, the business which had brought him there--thedisappearance, three days before, of the English artist, John Dampier, andof the present sad plight of Dampier's wife. 

Monsieur Beaucourt threw himself back in his chair. His face lit up, itlost its expression of apathetic fatigue; and his first quick questionsshowed him a keen and clever cross-examiner. 

At once he seized on the real mystery, and that though the Senator had notmade more of it than he could help. That was the discrepancy in the accountgiven by the Poulains and by Mrs. Dampier respectively as to the lady'sarrival at the hotel. 

But even Monsieur Beaucourt failed to elicit the fact that Senator Burton'sacquaintance with Mrs. Dampier was of such short standing. He assumed thatshe was a friend of the Burton family, and the Senator allowed theassumption to go by default. 

"The story you have told me, " the Prefect said at last, "is a very curiousstory, Monsieur le Sénateur. But here we come across stranger things everyday. Still, certain details make the disappearance of this Englishgentleman rather stranger than usual. I gather that the vanished man's wifeis a charming person?"

"Extremely charming!" said the Senator quickly. "And I should say quitetruthful--in fact this discrepancy between her account and that of thePoulains has worried and perplexed me very much. "

"Do not let that worry you, " said the other thoughtfully. "If this younglady, your friend, be telling the truth, it is very probable that thePoulains began to lie in the hope of avoiding trouble for themselves:having lied they found themselves obliged to stick to their story. You seejust now our hotel-keepers are coining gold, and they do not like this verypleasant occupation of theirs interrupted, for even the best of reasons. Ifthis gentleman left the hotel the same night that he arrived there--as Ican see you yourself are inclined to believe, Monsieur le Sénateur--thenyou may be sure that the hotel people, even if they did see him for a fewmoments, would not care to admit that they had done so. I therefore advisethat we put them and their account of what took place out of our minds. From what you tell me, you have already done what I may call theusual things?"

"Yes, " said Senator Burton frankly. "My son and I have done everythingwhich common sense could suggest to us. Thus we at once gave a descriptionof the missing man to the police station of the quarter where both theHôtel Saint Ange and Mr. Dampier's studio are situated. But, owingdoubtless to the fact that all your officials are just now very busy andvery overworked, we did not get quite as much attention paid to the case asI should have liked. I do not feel quite sure even now that the missing mandid not meet with a street accident. "

"I can ascertain that for you in a moment. "

Again the Prefect pressed a pedal. A panel, and this time a different panelfrom the first, slid back, and again the secretary appeared. 

Monsieur Beaucourt said a brief word or two, and a few moments later atabulated list, written in round-hand, lay before him. 

"Here are all the accidents which have occurred in Paris during the lastninety hours. "

He ran his eyes down the list; and then, rising, handed the sheets toSenator Burton. 

"I think this disposes of the idea that an accident may have befallen yourfriend in the streets, " said the Prefect briefly. 

And the Senator, handing back the list, acknowledged that this was so. 

"May I ask if you know much of the habits and way of life of this vanishedbridegroom?" asked the Prefect thoughtfully. "I understand he belongs tothe British Colony here. "

"Mr. Dampier was not my friend, " said the Senator hurriedly. "It is Mrs. Dampier--"

"Ah, yes--I understand--the three weeks' bride? It is she you know. Well, Monsieur le Sénateur, the best thing you and I can do is to look at theartist's dossier. That is quite likely to provide us with a useful clue. "

The Senator felt a thrill of anticipatory interest. All his life he hadheard of the dossiers kept by the Paris police, of how every dweller in thegreat city, however famous, however obscure, had a record in which the mostintimate details of their lives were set down in black and white. Somehowhe had never quite believed in these French police dossiers. 

"Surely you are not likely to have a dossier of Mr. Dampier?" he exclaimed, "he is a British subject, and, as far as I know, a perfectlyrespectable man. "

The Prefect smiled. "The mere fact that he is an English subject living inParis entitles him to a dossier. In fact everybody who is anybody in anykind of society, from that frequented by the Apaches to that of theFaubourg Saint Germain, has a dossier. And from what you tell me thisartist, who won a Salon medal, and who has already had a distinguishedcareer as a painter, is certainly 'somebody. ' Now, please tell me exactlythe way to spell his surname and his Christian name. English names are soperplexing. "

Very clearly the Senator spelt out--first the word "John" and then the word"Dampier. "

And as, under his dictation, the Prefect of Police wrote the twodistinctive names of the missing man, there came a look of frowningperplexity and indecision over his face. 

"It's an odd thing, " he muttered, "but I seem to have heard that name quitelately, and in some strange connection! Now what could it have been? As youprobably know, Monsieur le Sénateur, there is a French form of that name, Dampierre. But no--it is that John which puzzles me--I am quite sure that Ihave heard the name 'John Dampier' quite recently. "

"Isn't it likely, " suggested the Senator, "that the man's disappearance hasbeen reported to you? My son and I have done everything in our power tomake the fact known, and Mr. Dampier's name and particulars as to hisappearance have been at the Morgue since yesterday. "

"Well, that's possible, of course. Just now my poor head has to hold farmore than it was ever meant to do. The presence of so many royal personagesin Paris always means extra trouble for me--especially when they are here'incognito. ' By the way, it would amuse, perhaps shock you, to see thedossiers of some of these Princes and Grand Dukes! But these are, ofcourse, kept very secret. Meanwhile, I must not forget Mr. John Dampier. "

This time the Prefect did not ring his bell. Instead he blew down a tube. "You would scarcely believe it, " he said, looking up suddenly, "but thesetubes have only just been installed! I had a regular battle over the matterwith the Treasury. But now that the battle is won, I forget half the timethat the tube is there! Picot? Please send me the dossier of anartist-painter called John Dampier, " he spelt the names. "English subject;living in Impasse des Nonnes. I have an impression that we have had thatname before us during the last week or so--Have you any recollectionof it?"

He put the tube to his ear. 

And then the American Senator, looking at the Paris Prefect of Police, wasstruck by a sudden change which came over the listener's face. Theregathered on Monsieur Beaucourt's features a look of quick surprise, followed--yes, unmistakably--by a frown of dismay. 

Putting his free hand over the tube, he withdrew it from his ear andapplied it to his lips. "Yes, yes, " he said rapidly, "enough, enough! Iquite understand. It is, as you say, very natural that I should haveforgotten. "

And then he looked quickly across at the Senator. "You are right, Monsieurle Sénateur: Mr. Dampier's name was put before me only yesterday as that ofan Englishman who had disappeared from his hotel. But I took him to be apassing visitor. You know quite a number of the tourists brought by theExhibition disappear, sometimes for two or three days--sometimes--well, forever! That, of course, means they have left Paris suddenly, having got intowhat the English call a 'scrape. ' In such a case a man generally thinks itbetter to go home--wiser if sadder than when he came. "

There followed a pause. 

"Well, Monsieur le Sénateur, " said the Prefect, rising from his chair. "Youmay rest assured that I will do everything that is in my power to findyour friend. "

"But the dossier?" exclaimed Senator Burton. "I thought, Monsieur lePréfet, that I was to see Mr. Dampier's dossier?"

"Oh, to be sure--yes! I beg your pardon. "

Again he whistled down the tube. "Picot?" he exclaimed, "I still requirethat dossier! Why am I kept waiting in this way?"

He listened for a few moments to what his invisible subordinate had to say, and then again he spoke down the funnel, and with a certain pettishimpatience. "The last entry is of no importance--understand me--noimportance at all! The gentleman for whose benefit I require the dossieralready knows of this Mr. Dampier's disappearance. "

A moment later a clerk knocked at the door, and appeared with a blueenvelope which he laid with a deep bow on the Prefect's table. 

It was not a very large envelope, and yet Senator Burton was surprised atits size, and at the number of slips of paper the Prefect of Policewithdrew from it. 

"I do not suppose, Monsieur le Sénateur, that you have ever seen one of ourdossiers--in fact I may tell you that very few people outside this buildingever do see one. By the way, a great deal of nonsense is talked about them. Roughly speaking, a dossier is not a history of the individual in question;it simply records what is being said of him. For instance, the day that Ibecame Prefect of Police my dossier was brought to me--"

He smiled wearily. 

"Your dossier?" repeated the Senator in amazement. 

"Yes, my dossier. I have had it bound, and I keep it as a curiosity. Everything that had ever been written about me in the days when I was aMember of the Chamber of Deputies is there. And what really made me feelangry was the fact that I had been confused with more than one of mynamesakes, in fact certain misdeeds that these worthy folk had committedwere actually registered in my dossier!"

He stopped speaking for a moment, and took up the blue envelope. 

"But now let us consider this Mr. John Dampier. You will see that he bearsthe number '16909, ' and that his envelope is blue. Had this gentleman everhad anything to do with the police, were he, to put it plainly, of thecriminal class, this envelope would be yellow. As for the white envelopes, they, Monsieur le Sénateur, have to deal with a very different sort ofindividual. We class them briefly under the general word 'Morals. '"

As he spoke the Prefect was looking swiftly through the Dampier dossier, and not till he had glanced at every item did he hand the envelope to hisAmerican visitor. 

Senator Burton could not but admire the intelligent way the dossier hadbeen prepared, and kept up to date. 

On the top sheet were carefully gummed various entries from thebiographical dictionaries in which mention was made of John Dampier and hiscareer. There followed a eulogistic newspaper article containing an accountof the picture which had won the artist his Médaille d'Honneur at the Salontwo years before. Then came a piece of foolscap headed "General remarks, "and here were written the following words:--"Lives quietly; is popular withhis fellow artists; has few debts; does not frequent the British Colony. "

The Senator looked up quickly. "Well, there is not much to learn fromthis!" he said. And then, "I notice, Monsieur le Préfet, that there wasanother entry which has been removed. "

"Yes, " said the Prefect. "That last entry was only added the day beforeyesterday, and told of Monsieur Dampier's disappearance. It is beingwritten up now, Monsieur le Sénateur, with a note explaining your kindinterest in him, and telling of your visit to-day. "

Senator Burton rose from his chair. He could not have told exactly why, buthe had the impression that his courteous host had suddenly become anxiousto get rid of him. 

But this impression was evidently erroneous. Even after they had cordiallyshaken hands, the Prefect of Police seemed in no hurry to let him go. 

"One moment, Monsieur le Sénateur?" he looked earnestly into the American'sfrank face. "I feel bound to tell you that I am convinced there is more inthis mysterious disappearance than appears on the surface. I fear--Igreatly fear--that this Mr. Dampier has vanished of his own free will, " hespoke with evident reluctance, "and that his poor young wife will never seehim again. As I think I said before, the public, especially the vulgar, ignorant public, credit us with powers we are far from possessing. It ispossible that this gentleman does not care for the trammels of marriedlife, and that his bride, however charming she may be, has disappointedhim. Such cases are commoner than you might think possible, especiallyamong English and American people. You, in your country, if you willforgive my saying so, marry with such reckless haste; and that often meansrepenting at bitter leisure. " The Prefect's voice lowered, a look of realdistress came over his face. "Ah! what tales I could tell you--what fearfuldomestic tragedies have been confided to me here, within these four walls!No doubt for an artist this Mr. John Dampier was a very good fellow--whatin England they call 'respectable enough. ' But still, think what paintersare like! Think of how Bohemian, how careless is their life, compared withthat of the man who has a regular occupation--" Monsieur de Beaucourt shookhis head gloomily--"In most of these stories of sudden disappearance thereis no crime, as the relations are so apt to think there is. No, Monsieur leSénateur, there is simply--a woman! Sometimes it is a new friend--but faroftener it is an old friend. "

There was a pause. "God forbid, " said the Prefect suddenly, "that I shouldaccuse this unfortunate man of anything heinous! But--but, Monsieur leSénateur? You must have learnt through our Press, through those of ournewspapers which delight in dragging family scandals to light, the amazingstory of Count Bréville. "

The Senator was impressed, in spite of himself, by the other's manner. 

"I don't remember the name, " he said thoughtfully. 

"Count Bréville, " said the Prefect slowly, "was a man of deservedly highreputation, in fact one of the pillars of the Royalist party. He had a wifewho adored him, a large family whom he adored, and they all lived anidyllic country life. Well, one day the Count's coat, his hat, hispocket-book (which was known to have been full of bank-notes, but which wasnow empty) were found on the parapet of a bridge near his château. It wasgiven out--it was believed that a dastardly crime had been committed. Andthen, by a mere accident, it was brought to my notice--for there wasnothing in the Count's dossier which could have led me to suspect such athing--that a charming governess who had been in the employment of hisCountess for some four or five years had suddenly left to join her familyin the New World, and that her travelling companion was strangely like herlate employer!"

"Yes, " said Senator Burton uncomfortably, "I think I do remember somethingof that story now. "

"All the world was let into the secret, " said the Prefect regretfully, "forthe family had confided, from the first, in the Press. They thought--whatdid they not think, poor, foolish people? Among other things they actuallybelieved that the Count had been murdered for political reasons. But no, the explanation was far more simple. That high-minded man, that Christiangentleman, this father of charming children whom he apparently adored, hadgone off under a false name, leaving everything that was dear to him, including his large fortune, to throw in his lot with the governess!"

The Prefect came closer to Senator Burton. He even lowered his voice. "Ihad the Countess here, Monsieur le Sénateur, in this room. Oh, what atouching, what a moving interview! The poor woman was only anxious to haveback her husband with no questions asked, with no cruel reminders. And nowhe is back--a broken man. But had he been an artist, Monsieur le Sénateur, would the Count have been traced? Of course not! Would he have returned?No, indeed! The Prefect of Police can do many things, Monsieur le Sénateur, but as I said just now, he cannot force an unwilling husband back to hiswife, especially if that husband has already crossed the frontier. Come, Monsieur le Sénateur, confess that some such explanation of Mr. Dampier'sdisappearance has already occurred to you?"

"Well, " said Senator Burton slowly, "I confess that some such thought hascrossed my mind. But in that case what a tragic fate for the pooryoung wife!"

"Bah! Do you know the saying:--'Widowhood is the Marshal's bâton everywoman carries in her knapsack!'"

Senator Burton could not help smiling. Then he grew very grave. "But Mrs. Dampier, in the case you suppose, would not be a widow, Monsieur le Préfet:she would be neither maid, wife, nor widow. "

The Prefect looked surprised. "Ah yes! The English divorce laws are veryconservative. But I suppose in the end such a marriage would be annulled?"

"I suppose so, " said Senator Burton indifferently. 

"I wish I could help you more, " said the Prefect solicitously. He reallywished he could, for he liked his kindly visitor. "Can you suggest anythingthat we could do to help you?"

"Yes, " said the Senator frankly. "My son, Monsieur le Préfet, has not thesame trust in the hotel-keeper, Poulain, that I feel. Neither, I am boundto tell you, has Mrs. Dampier. I think it would be a relief to the pooryoung lady, if the hotel could be searched for some trace of Mr. Dampier'ssojourn there. You see Mrs. Dampier is convinced--or seems to be--that herhusband spent a night there. "

"Nothing is easier than to have the place searched, " said the Prefectquickly. "I will arrange for it to be done to-morrow morning at eleven. Perhaps you, Monsieur le Sénateur, will inform the hotel people that aPerquisition is about to take place. "

CHAPTER X

As he walked away from the Prefecture of Police, Senator Burton toldhimself that the French were certainly a curiously casual people. 

How strange that the Prefect should have asked him to break the news ofwhat was to happen at eleven o'clock the next morning to the Poulains! InAmerica--and he supposed in England also--the hotel-keeper would havereceived a formal notification of the fact that his house was about to besearched, or, in the case that foul play was suspected, no warning at all. But here, in Paris, it was thought enough to entrust a stranger with amessage concerning so serious a matter. 

Of everything that had happened in connection with this extraordinaryDampier affair, perhaps this having to tell the Poulains that their hotelwas to be searched was the most disagreeable and painful thing of all totheir American friend and kindly client. 

The Senator was now very sorry, that, in deference to his son's wish, hehad made such a suggestion. 

On his return to the hotel he was surprised to find a woman he had neverseen before installed in Madame Poulain's kitchen. Still, the presence ofthe stranger brought a sense of reprieve. 

He, Senator Angus Burton, the distinguished politician whom most of thoseof his fellow-countrymen whose opinion mattered would have said to be aparticularly fearless man, dreaded the task of telling Madame Poulain thata Perquisition was about to take place in her house. 

He lifted his hat. "Is Madame Poulain out?"

"She won't be long, monsieur; she and her husband have had to absentthemselves for a little hour. "

"Are they both out?" asked the Senator. He had never in his long knowledgeof the Hôtel Saint Ange known such a thing to happen--that both thePoulains should be out together. 

"Yes, monsieur. They have had to take that nephew of theirs, young Jules, off to the station. They are sending him to the country. He's in a sadstate--he does nothing but cry, poor lad! I suppose he's in love--I'veknown it take young men that way. " The woman smiled, smiled as a certaintype of person usually does smile when giving disagreeable or unpleasantnews. "It is very awkward for the Poulains to lose the lad just now, forthey are very busy. I have no doubt--" she tossed her head--"that Jules hasbeen working too hard; the Poulains are foolish not to have more help fromoutside. I came in just to oblige Madame Poulain while she and her husbandaccompanied Jules to the station. But I also am busy. I have my own work toattend to just as much as anybody else; and my three children are allworking at the Exhibition. "

The Senator left the eager gossip, and began walking round the courtyard. He felt quite wretched. Jules, at no time a very intelligent lad, hadevidently been terrified out of his wits by the questionings and thecross-questionings to which he had been subjected. 

And then--and then--no doubt Gerald was in a measure also responsible forthe lad's state! Senator Burton had been very much annoyed when his son hadtold him of what had happened the night before--of how he had accused thePoulains' nephew of lying--of knowing something of the Dampier affair. .. . 

He was just about to go upstairs when he saw Monsieur and Madame Poulainemerging from the porte cochère. They both looked tired, hot, anddispirited. 

He walked forward to meet them. 

"I am very sorry to hear this news about Jules, " he began quickly. "I hopeyou are not really anxious about him?"

Madame Poulain stared at him fixedly, reproachfully. "It is all thisaffair, " she said with a heavy sigh. "If it had only been the police, ourown police, we should not have minded, Monsieur le Sénateur--we are honestpeople--we have nothing to fear from the police, " she lifted her headproudly. "But when it came to that impudent young man--"

For a moment the Senator was at a loss--then he suddenly remembered:--"Youmean the gentleman attached to the British Consulate?" he saiduncomfortably. And as she nodded her head, "But surely it was quitereasonable that he should come and ask those questions. You must rememberthat both Mr. And Mrs. Dampier are English people. They have a right to theprotection and help of their Consulate. "

"I do not say to the contrary, monsieur. I am only telling you the truth, namely that that English lawyer--for lawyer I suppose he was--terrifiedJules. And had it not been that I and my husband are conscious of--of ourinnocence, Monsieur le Sénateur, he would have terrified us also. Then yourson attacked Jules too. Surely the matter might have been left to thepolice--our own excellent police. "

"I am glad you feel as you do about the police, " said the Senatorearnestly, "for as a matter of fact the Prefect of Police, whom I have justbeen consulting about Mr. Dampier's disappearance, suggests that the HôtelSaint Ange be searched. "

"Searched?" exclaimed Monsieur Poulain, staring at the Senator. 

"Searched?" shrieked Madame Poulain indignantly. 

"Yes, " said Senator Burton quietly, and trying to speak as if a policePerquisition of a respectable hotel was the most ordinary thing in theworld. "They are sending their men at eleven to-morrow morning. Let me addthat they and Mrs. Dampier are most eager to study your convenience inevery way. They would doubtless choose another time should eleven o'clockbe inconvenient to you. "

Madame Poulain was now speechless with indignation, and yes, with surprise. When at last she did speak, her voice trembled with pain and anger. 

"To think, " she said, turning to her husband, and taking for the moment nonotice of her American client--"to think that you and I, Poulain, afterhaving lived here for twenty-one years and a half, should have our hotelsearched by the police--as if it were the resort of brigands!" She turnedto the Senator, and quietly, not without a measure of dignity, wenton:--"And to think that it is you, Monsieur le Sénateur, who we have alwaysthought one of our best patrons, who have brought this indignity upon us!"

"I am very, very sorry for all the trouble you are having about thisaffair, " said Senator Burton earnestly. "And Madame Poulain? I want toassure you how entirely I have always believed your statement concerningthis strange business. "

"If that is so then why all this--this trouble, Monsieur le Sénateur?"Husband and wife spoke simultaneously. 

"I wonder, " exclaimed the Senator, "that you can ask me such a question! Iquite admit that the first twenty-four hours I knew nothing of thisunfortunate young woman whose cause I championed. But now, Madame Poulain, I have learnt that all she told me of herself is true. Remember she hasnever faltered in the statement that she came here accompanied by herhusband. I, as you know, " he lowered his voice, "suppose that in sothinking she is suffering from a delusion. But you cannot expect my view tobe shared by those who know her well and who are strangers to you. As Itold you only this morning, we hope that towards the end of this week Mrs. Dampier's lawyer will arrive from England. "

"But what will happen then?" cried Madame Poulain, throwing up her handswith an excited, passionate gesture. "When will this persecution come to anend? We have done everything we could; we have submitted to odiousinterrogatories, first from one and then from the other--and now our hotelis to be searched! None of our other clients, and remember the hotel isfull, Monsieur le Sénateur, have a suspicion of what is going on, but anymoment the affair may become public, and then--then our hotel might emptyin a day! Oh, Monsieur le Sénateur"--she clasped her hands together--"Ifyou refuse to think of us, think of our child, think of poor littleVirginie!"

"Come, come, Madame Poulain!"

The Senator turned to the good woman's husband, but Poulain's usuallyplacid face bore a look of lowering rage. The mention of his idoliseddaughter had roused his distress as well as anger. 

"Now, Poulain, do tell your wife that there is really nothing to worryabout. The police speak of you both in the very highest terms! As to thesearch that will take place to-morrow, it is the merest formality. "

"I hope, monsieur, that you will do us the honour of being present, " saidMadame Poulain quickly. "We have nothing to hide, and we should far preferyou to be there. "

"If such is your wish I will certainly be present, " said Senator Burtongravely. 

And then, as he walked away to the escalier d'honneur, he told himself thaton the whole the poor Poulains had taken his disagreeable piece of newsvery well. Gerald was not showing his usual sense over this business: hehad let his sympathies run away with him. But the Senator loved his son allthe better for his chivalrous interest in poor Mrs. Dampier. It wasn'tevery young man who would have put everything aside in the way of interest, of amusement, and of pleasure in such a city as Paris, for the sake of anentire stranger. 

As to Gerald's view of the Poulains, that again was natural. He didn't knowthese people with the same kindly knowledge the Senator and Daisy had ofthem. Gerald had been at college, and later working hard in the office ofAmerica's greatest living architect, at the time the Senator and hisdaughter had spent a whole winter at the Hôtel Saint Ange. 

It was natural that the young man should take Mrs. Dampier's word insteadof the hotel-keepers'. But even so, how extraordinary was the utterdivergence between the two accounts of what had happened!

For the hundredth time Senator Burton asked himself where the truth lay. 

A sad change had come over Nancy Dampier in the three long days. She couldnot sleep, and they had to force her to eat. The interrogatories to whichshe had had to submit, first from one and then from another, had worn herout. When going over her story with the Consular official, she had suddenlyfaltered, and putting her hand to her head with a bewildered gesture, "Ican't remember, " she had said, looking round piteously at the Senator, "Ican't remember!"

And he asked himself now whether those three words did not embody more ofthe truth than the poor girl would admit. Had she ever really rememberedwhat had happened on that first evening of her arrival in Paris?

Such were Senator Burton's disconnected and troubled thoughts as, leavingthe perturbed hotel-keepers, he slowly went to join his children andtheir guest. 

To his relief, neither Daisy nor Nancy were in the salon, and his thoughtswere pleasantly forced into another channel, for on the table lay a cablefrom some people called Hamworth, Mr. Hamworth was one of the Senator'soldest friends: also there was a pretty clever daughter who had alwaysshown a rather special liking for Gerald. .. . 

The Hamworths were arriving in Paris at ten the next morning, and theyasked the Senator and his children to join them at lunch at Bignon's. 

Mingling with a natural pleasure at the thought of seeing old friends, andof getting away from all this painful business for a short time, was addeda secret satisfaction at the thought that he would thus escape beingpresent at the search of the Hôtel Saint Ange. 

CHAPTER XI

"I suppose we ought to start in about half an hour, " said the Senatorgenially. They were sitting, he and Gerald, at breakfast. 

Madame Poulain, with the adaptability of her kind--the adaptability whichmakes the French innkeeper the best in the world, always served a real"American breakfast" in the Burtons' salon. 

As his son made no answer to his remark, he went on, "I should like to beat the station a few minutes before the Hamworths' train is due. "

Senator Burton was sorry, very, very sorry indeed, that there was still nonews of the missing man, on this third morning of Dampier's disappearance. But he could not help feeling glad that poor little Mrs. Dampier had stayedin bed; thanks to that fact he and his children were having breakfasttogether, in the old, comfortable way. 

The Senator felt happier than he had felt for some time. What a comfort itwould be, even to Gerald and to Daisy, to forget for a moment this strange, painful affair, and to spend three or four hours with old friends!

Gerald looked up. "I'm not coming, father. You will have to make myapologies to the Hamworths. Of course I should have liked to see them. ButMrs. Dampier has asked me to be present at the search. Someone ought, ofcourse, to be there to represent her. " He jerked the words out with a touchof defiance in his voice. 

"I'm sorry she did that, " said the Senator coldly. "And I think, Gerald, you should have consulted me before consenting to do so. You see, ourposition with regard to the Poulains is a delicate one--"

"Delicate?" repeated Gerald quickly. "How do you mean, father?"

"We have known these people a long while. It is fifteen years, Gerald, since I first came to this hotel with your dear mother. I have receivednothing but kindness from Madame Poulain, and I am very, very sorry thatshe now associates us in her mind with this painful business. "

"All I can say is, sir, that I do not share your sorrow. "

The Senator looked up quickly. This was the first time--yes, the very firsttime that Gerald had ever spoken to him with that touch of sarcasm--somewould have said impertinence--which sits so ill on the young, at any ratein the view of the old. Perhaps Gerald repented of his rude, hasty words, for it was in a very different tone that he went on:--

"You see, father, I believe the whole of Mrs. Dampier's story, and you onlybelieve a part. If I shared your view I should think very ill of herindeed. But you, father (I don't quite know how you do it) manage to likeand respect her, and to believe the Poulains as well!"

"Yes, " said the Senator slowly, "that is so, Gerald. I believe that thePoulains are telling the truth, and that this poor young woman thinks sheis telling the truth--two very different things, my boy, as you will findout by the time you know as much of human nature as I now do. When you havelived as long as I have lived in the world, you will know that many peoplehave an extraordinary power of persuading themselves of that whichis not--"

"But why--" asked Gerald eagerly, --"why should Mrs. Dampier wish to provethat her husband accompanied her here if he did nothing of the kind?"

And then just as he asked the question which the Senator would not havefound it very easy to answer, Daisy came into the room. 

"I have persuaded Mrs. Dampier to stay in bed till the search is over. She's just worn out, poor little dear: I shall be glad when this Mr. Stephens has arrived--she evidently has the greatest faith in him. "

"I shall be glad too, " said the Senator slowly: how glad he would beneither of his children knew or guessed. "And now, Daisy, I hope you won'tbe long in getting ready to start for the station. I should be sorry indeedif the Hamworths' train came in before we reached there. "

"Father! Surely you don't want me to leave Nancy this morning of allmornings? She ought not to be alone while the search is going on. Shewanted to be actually present at it, didn't she, Gerald?"

The young man nodded. "Yes, but Daisy and I persuaded her that that was notnecessary, that I would be there for her. It seems that Mr. Dampier had avery large portmanteau with him. She is sure that the Poulains have got ithidden away. "

"She has told Gerald exactly what it is like, " chimed in Daisy. 

The Senator looked from one to the other: he felt both helpless andindignant. "The Hamworths are among the oldest friends we have in theworld, " he exclaimed. "Surely one of you will come with me? I'm not askingyou to leave Mrs. Dampier for long, Daisy. "

But Daisy shook her head decidedly. "I'd rather not, father--I don't feelas if I wanted to see the Hamworths at all just now. I'm sure that when youexplain everything to them, they will understand. "

Utterly discomfited and disappointed, and feeling for the first time reallyangry with poor Nancy Dampier, Senator Burton took his departure for thestation, alone. 

Perquisition?

To the French imagination there is something terrifying in the very word. And this justifiable terror is a national tradition. To thousands of honestfolk a Perquisition was an ever present fear through the old Régime, andthis fear became acute terror in the Revolution. Then a search warrantmeant almost certainly subsequent arrest, imprisonment, and death. 

Even nowadays every Frenchman is aware that at any moment, and sometimes onthe most frivolous pretext, his house may be searched, his most privatepapers ransacked, and every member of his household submitted to a sharp, informal interrogation, while he stands helpless by, bearing the outragewith what grace he may. 

Gerald Burton, much as he now disliked and suspected Monsieur and MadamePoulain, could not but feel sorry for them when he saw the manner in whichthose hitherto respectable and self-respecting folk were treated by thePolice Agent who, with two subordinates, had been entrusted with the taskof searching the Hôtel Saint Ange. 

The American was also surprised to see the eagerness with which thePoulains had welcomed his presence at their unpleasant ordeal. 

"Thank you for coming, Monsieur Gerald; but where is Monsieur le Sénateur?"asked Madame Poulain feverishly. "He promised--he absolutely promised usthat he would be here this morning!"

"My father has had to go out, " said Gerald courteously, "but I am here torepresent both him and Mrs. Dampier. "

A heavy frown gathered over the landlady's face. "Ah!" she muttered, "itwas a dark day for us when we allowed that lady to enter our hotel!"

Gerald, putting a strong restraint on his tongue, remained silent, but amoment later, as if in answer to his feeling of exasperation and anger, heheard the Police Agent's voice raised in sarcastic wrath. "I must ask youto produce the plan before I begin my Perquisition. "

"But, monsieur, " exclaimed the hotel-keeper piteously, "I cannot give you aplan of our hotel! How should we have such a thing? The house is said to bethree hundred years old. We have even been told it should be classed as anHistorical Monument!"

"Every hotel-keeper is bound to have a plan of his hotel, " said the Agentroughly. "And I shall report you for not complying with the law. If a planof the Hôtel Saint Ange did not exist, it was your duty to have one made atyour own expense. "

"Bien, bien, monsieur! It shall be done, " said Poulain resignedly. 

"To have a Perquisition without a plan is a farce!" said the man, this timeaddressing Gerald Burton. "An absolute farce! In such an old house as thisthere may be many secret hiding-places. "

"There are no secret hiding-places in our hotel, " screamed Madame Poulainangrily. "We have no objection at all to being inspected in the greatestdetail. But I must warn you, gentlemen, that your job will take some timeto carry through. "

The Police Agent shrugged his shoulders disagreeably. "Come along, " he saidsharply. "Let us begin at once! We would like to start by seeing your ownrooms, madame. "

Gerald Burton began to feel very uncomfortable. Under pleasanter, morenormal circumstances he would have thoroughly enjoyed a long exhaustiveinspection of a house which had probably been remodelled, early in theeighteenth century, on the site of a mediaeval building. 

For the first time since he had begun to study with a view to excelling inthe profession he had himself chosen, he had forgotten his work--the workhe so much enjoyed--for three whole days. This Perquisition brought some ofthe old interest back. As an architect he could not but be interested andstimulated by this intimate inspection of what had been a magnificentspecimen of a French town mansion. 

When the search party reached the bed-chamber of the hotel-keeper and hiswife Gerald Burton drew back, but Madame Poulain gave him a smart tap onthe arm. "Go in, go in!" she said tartly, but he saw there were tears inher eyes. "We have nothing to hide, Monsieur Gerald! This is my room ofmemories; the room where our beloved Virginie was born. Little did I thinkit would ever be dishonoured by the presence of the police!"

Gerald, thus objurgated, walked through into a large room, low-ceilinged asare all rooms situated on the entresol floor of a Paris house. 

Over the bed hung Madame Poulain's wedding wreath of artificial orangeblossoms in a round glass case. Photographs of the beloved Virginie takenat various stages of her life, from infancy to girlhood, were the soleother adornment of the room, and formed an odd contrast to the delicatelycarved frames of the old dim mirrors let into grey panelled walls. 

"What have we here?" cried the Police Agent tapping one of the panels whichformed the wall opposite the door and the fireplace. 

"It is a way through into our daughter's room, " said Poulain sullenly, andopening what appeared to be a cupboard door. 

The American took an eager step forward. 

This must be the place in which, according to Nancy's account, John Dampierhad stood concealed during that eventful moment when he, Gerald, and hissister Daisy, had stood looking into the tiny room. 

Yes, two or three people might well stand hidden in this deep recess, forthe cupboard was almost as large as the smaller of the two apartments ofwhich it formed the connecting link. 

The Police Agent, following young Burton, stepped down into Virginie'sroom:--his voice softened:--"A very charming room, " he said, "this littlenest of mademoiselle your daughter!"

"We had to cut a window out of the wall, " observed Madame Poulain, "When wefirst came here this was a blind closet where the aristocrats, it seems, used to powder their hair--silly creatures that they were! As if anyonewould like to be white before their time!"

"We had better go up this staircase, " said the Police Agent, passing out ofMademoiselle Poulain's room. 

And the six of them all filed up the narrow staircase, glancing into many acurious, strange little apartment on the way. 

Every inch of space had been utilised in view of the business theExhibition rush had brought the Poulains. Still, even on the upper floors, Gerald Burton noticed that there remained intact many beautiful suites ofapartments now divided and let out as single rooms. 

Not a word had been said of the coming Perquisition to those staying in thehotel. But Madame Poulain, by some means best known to herself, had managedto get rid of them all for the morning. And it was well that she had doneso, for in more than one case the Police Agent and his men lifted the lidof travelling trunks, unhesitatingly pulled out drawers, and flung open thedoors of hanging cupboards. 

Gerald Burton was in turn amused, interested, and disgusted. The glimpseswhich this search revealed into other people's lives seemed dishonourable, and instinctively he withdrew his gaze and strove to see as littleas possible. 

Having thoroughly examined all the street side of the Hôtel Saint Ange, thethree police emissaries started their investigations on the other side ofthe quadrangle, that which gave on the courtyard and on the garden. 

When the party came round to the rooms occupied by Senator Burton and hisfamily, Madame Poulain came forward, and touched the Police Agent on thearm:--"The lady who imagines that we have made away with her husband ishere, " she whispered. "You had better knock at the door, and then walkstraight in. She will not be pleased--perhaps she will scream--Englishpeople are so prudish when they are in bed! But never mind what she says ordoes: there is no reason why her room should not be searched as well asthat of everybody else. "

But the woman's vengeful wish was to remain ungratified. 

Nancy Dampier had dressed, and with Daisy's help she had even made her bed. The Police Agent--Gerald Burton was deeply grateful to him for it--treatedher with consideration and respect. 

"C'est bien! C'est bien! madame, " he said, just glancing round the room, and making a quick sign to his men that their presence was notrequired there. 

At last the weary party, for by that time they were all very weary, reachedthe top floor of the Hôtel Saint Ange. 

Here were rough garrets, oppressively hot on a day like this, but each andall obviously serving some absent client of the hotel as temporarydwelling-place. 

Madame Poulain looked quite exhausted. "I think, " she said plaintively, "Iwill remain here, monsieur, at the end of the passage. You will find everydoor unlocked. Perhaps we ought to tell you that these rooms are not as arule inhabited, or indeed used by us in any way. That must excuse theirpresent condition. But in a season like this--well, dame! we could fillevery cranny twice over!"

Gerald and the three Frenchmen walked along the corridor, the latterflinging open door after door of the curious cell-like little bedroomsfurnished for the most part with only an iron bed, a couple of chairs, andthe usual walnut-wood wardrobe. 

"What's this?" asked one of the men sharply. "We find a door plastered uphere, Monsieur Poulain. "

But it was Madame Poulain who came languidly forward from the end of thepassage. "Yes, " she said. "If you wish to see that room you will have toget a ladder and climb up from the outside. A young Breton priest died herelast January from scarlet fever, monsieur--" she lowered her voiceinstinctively--"and the sanitary authorities forced us to block up the roomin this way--most unfortunately for us. "

"It is strange, " said the man, "that the seal of the sanitary authoritiesis not affixed to the door. "

"To tell you the truth, " said Madame Poulain uncomfortably, "the seal wasthere, but I removed it. You see, monsieur, it would not have beenpleasant, even when all danger of infection was gone, to say anything toour other clients about so sad an event. "

The man nodded his head, and went on. 

But the incident made a disagreeable impression on Gerald Burton. And whenthey all finally came down to the courtyard, the Police Agents being bythis time on far better terms with Monsieur and Madame Poulain than theyhad been at the beginning--on such good terms indeed that they were morethan willing to attack the refreshments the hotel-keeper had made ready forthem--he drew the head Agent aside. 

"There was one thing, " he said, "which rather troubled me--"

The man looked at him attentively. "Yes, monsieur?" He realised that thisyoung man, whom he took for an Englishman, had been present on behalf ofthe people at whose request the Perquisition had been ordered. He wastherefore inclined to treat him with civility. 

"I mean that closed room on the top floor, " said Gerald hesitatingly. "Isthere no way of ascertaining whether Madame Poulain's story istrue--whether, that is, the room was ever condemned by the sanitaryauthorities?"

"Yes, " said the Agent, "nothing is easier, monsieur, than to find thatout. "

He took a note-book out of his pocket, tore out a sheet, and wrote a fewlines on it. Then he called one of his subordinates to him and said a fewwords of which Gerald caught the sense. It was an order to go to the officeof the sanitary inspector of the district and bring back an answer at once. 

In a quarter of an hour the man was back. 

"The answer is 'Yes, '" he said a little breathlessly, and he handed hischief a large sheet of paper, headed:

 VILLE DE PARIS, Sanitary Inspector's Department. 

 In answer to your question, I have to report that we did condemn a room in the Hôtel Saint Ange for cause of infectious disease. 

The Police Agent handed it to Gerald Burton. "I felt sure that in thatmatter, " he observed, "Madame Poulain was telling the truth. But, ofcourse, a Perquisition in a house of this kind is a mere farce, without aplan to guide us. Think of the strange winding passages along which we wereled, of the blind rooms, of the deep cupboards into which we peeped! Forall we can tell, several apartments may have entirely escaped ourknowledge. "

"Do you make many of these Perquisitions?" asked Gerald curiously. 

"No, monsieur. We are very seldom asked to search a whole house. Almostalways we have some indication as to the special room or rooms which are tobe investigated. In fact since I became attached to the police, six yearsago, this is the first time I have ever had to carry out a thoroughPerquisition, " he laughed a little ruefully, "and it makes one dry!"

Gerald Burton took the hint. He put a twenty-franc piece into the man'shand. "For you and your men, " he said. "Go and get a good lunch: I am sureyou need it. "

The Police Agent thanked him cordially. "One word, monsieur? Perhaps Iought to tell you that we of the police are quite sure that the gentlemanabout whom you are anxious left this hotel--if indeed he was ever in it. The Poulains bear a very good character--better than that of manyhotel-keepers of whom I could tell you--better than that of certainhotel-keepers who own grand international hotels the other side of theriver. Of course I had to be rough with them at first--one has to keep upone's character, you know. But, monsieur? I was told confidentially thatthis Perquisition would probably lead to nothing, and, as you see, it hasled to nothing. "

Gerald sighed, rather wearily, for he too was tired, he too would be gladof his luncheon. Yes, this search had been, as the Police Agent hinted, something of a farce after all, and he had led not only himself, but, whathe regretted far more, poor Nancy Dampier down a blind alley. 

He found her waiting, feverishly eager and anxious to hear the result ofthe Perquisition. When the door of the salon opened, she got up and turnedto him, a strained look on her face. 

"Well?" she said. "Well, Mr. Burton?"

He shook his head despondently. "We found nothing, absolutely nothing whichcould connect your husband with any one of the rooms which we searched, Mrs. Dampier. If, after leaving you, he did spend the night in the HôtelSaint Ange, the Poulains have obliterated every trace of his presence. "

She gave a low cry of pain, of bitter disappointment, and suddenly sinkingdown into a chair, buried her head in her hands--"I can't bear it, " shewailed. "I only want to know the truth, whatever the truth may be! Anythingwould be better than what I am going through now. "

Gerald Burton came and stood by the bowed figure. He became curiously palewith that clear, not unhealthy, pallor which is induced by exceptionalintensity of feeling. 

"Mrs. Dampier?" he said, in a very low voice. 

She lifted her head and looked at him fixedly. 

"Everything that a man can do I will do to find your husband. If I fail tofind him living I will find him dead. "

CHAPTER XII

But it is far easier to form such a resolution and to make such a promiseas that which Gerald Burton had made to Nancy Dampier than it is tocarry it out. 

The officials of the Prefecture of Police grew well accustomed to the sightof the tall, good-looking young American coming and going in their midst, and they all showed a sympathetic interest in his quest. But though thepolice officials were lavish in kindly words, and in permits and passeswhich he found an open sesame to the various places where it was justconceivable that John Dampier, after having met with some kind of accident, might have been carried, they were apparently quite unable to elucidate thegrowing mystery of the English artist's disappearance. 

Early on the Friday morning Gerald Burton telephoned to Nancy Dampier'sfriend and lawyer the fact that they were still entirely without any clueto the whereabouts of the missing man. And, true to his word, Mr. Stephensarrived in Paris that same evening. 

He found his poor young client awaiting him in the company of the newfriends to whom she owed so deep a debt of gratitude, and this lessened, toa certain extent, the awkwardness of their meeting. Even so, the shrewd, kindly Englishman felt much shocked and distressed by the change which hadtaken place in Nancy. 

Just a month ago he had seen her standing, most radiant as well asprettiest of brides, by her proud husband's side. Perhaps because she hadhad so lonely a girlhood there had been no tears at Nancy Tremain'swedding, and when he had put her in the carriage which was to be the firstlittle stage of her honeymoon, she had whispered, "Mr. Stephens? I feel asif I was going home. " And the lawyer had known all that the dear, to hertill then unfamiliar, word--had meant to her. 

And now, here she was with strangers, wan, strained and unutterablyweary-looking; as she stood, her hand clasped in his, looking, with dumbanguish, up into his face, Mr. Stephens felt a thrill of intense angeragainst John Dampier. For the present, at any rate, he refused to entertainthe theory of crime or accident. But he kept his thoughts entirelyto himself. 

The irruption of any human being into a small and, for any reason, closelywelded together set of people produces much the same effect as does theaddition of a new product to a chemical mixture. And the arrival of theEnglish lawyer affected not only Nancy herself but, in varying ways, Senator Burton and his son. 

A very few moments spent in the Englishman's company brought to theAmerican Senator an immense measure of relief. For one thing, he wassincerely glad to know that the poor young stranger's business was about topass into capable and evidently most trustworthy hands: also a rapidinterchange of words the first time they were left alone together put anend, and that for ever, to Senator Burton's uneasy suspicions--suspicionswhich had persisted to the end--as to Mrs. Dampier's account of herself. 

Whatever else was obscure in this strange story, it was now clear thatNancy had told nothing but the truth concerning her short, simple pastlife. And looking back the Senator found it difficult, as a man so oftenfinds it difficult when he becomes wise after an event, to justify, even tohimself, his former attitude of distrust. 

As to Gerald Burton, he felt a little jealousy of the lawyer. Till thecoming of Mr. Stephens it was to him that Mrs. Dampier had instinctivelyturned in her distress and suspense; now she naturally consulted, anddeferred to the advice of, the older man and older friend. 

But Mr. Stephens was not able to do more than had already been done. Helistened to what all those about him had to say concerning John Dampier'sdisappearance, and he carefully went over the ground already covered bySenator Burton and his son. He, too, saw the British Consul; he, too, wasgranted a short but cordial interview with the Prefect of Police; but noteven to the Senator did he advance any personal theory as to what couldaccount for the extraordinary occurrence. 

Members of the legal profession are the same all the world over. If theyare wise men and good lawyers, they keep their own counsel. 

Perhaps because he himself had a son who was Gerald's age, the Englishsolicitor took, from the first, a very special interest in the youngAmerican architect. Soon they were on excellent terms with oneanother--indeed, it was with Gerald Burton that he found he had most to do. The young man naturally accompanied him to all those places where thepresence of a first-rate interpreter was likely to be useful, and GeraldBurton also pursued a number of independent enquiries on his own account. 

But nothing was of any avail; they were baffled at every turn, and soonthis search for a vanished man became, to one of the two now so strenuouslyengaged in it, the most sinister and disturbing of the many problems withwhich he had had to deal as a trusted family lawyer. 

The screen of memory bears many blurred and hazy impressions on itssurface, but now and again some special dramatic happening remains fixedthere in a series of sharply-etched pictures in which every line has itsretrospective meaning and value. 

Such was to be the case with Mr. Stephens and the curious days he spent inParis seeking for John Dampier. He was there a whole week, and everysucceeding day was packed with anxious, exciting interviews andexpeditions, each of which it was hoped might yield some sort of clue. Butwhat remained indelibly fixed on the English lawyer's screen of memory werethree or four at the time apparently insignificant conversations which inno case could have done much to solve the problem he had set himselfto solve. 

The first of these was a short conversation, in the middle of that busyweek, with Nancy Dampier. 

After the first interview in which she had told him her version of what hadhappened the night of her own and her husband's arrival in Paris, he hadhad very little talk with her, and at no time had he expressed any opinionas to what could have happened to John Dampier. But at last he felt it hisduty to try and probe a little more than he had felt it at first possibleto do into the question of a possible motive or motives. 

"I'm afraid, " he began, "that there's very little more to do than has beenalready done. I mean, of course, for the present. And in your place, Nancy, I should come back to England, and wait there for any news that mayreach you. "

As she shook her head very decidedly, he went on gravely:--"I know it isopen to you to remain in Paris; but, my dear, I cannot believe that yourhusband is in Paris. If he were, we must by now, with the help of theFrench police--the most expert in the world, remember--have come acrosstraces of him, and that whether he be dead or alive. "

But Nancy did not take the meaning he had hoped to convey by that lastword. On the contrary:--

"Do you think, " she asked, and though her lips quivered she spoke veryquietly, "that Jack is dead, Mr. Stephens? I know that Senator Burton's sonhas come to believe that he is. "

"No, " said the English lawyer very seriously, "no, Nancy, I do not believethat your husband is dead. It is clear that had he been killed or injuredthat first morning in the Paris streets we should know it by now. Thepolice assert, and I have no reason to doubt them, that they have madeevery kind of enquiry. No, they, like me, believe that your husband hasleft Paris. "

"Left Paris?" repeated Nancy in a bewildered tone. 

"Yes, my dear. As to his motive in doing so--I suppose--forgive me forasking you such a question--I suppose that you and he were on quitecomfortable and--well, happy terms together?"

Nancy looked at him amazed--and a look of great pain and indignationflashed into her face. 

"Why of course we were!" she faltered. "Absolutely--ideally happy! Youdidn't know Jack, Mr. Stephens; you were always prejudiced against him. Why, he's never said--I won't say an unkind word, but a cold or indifferentword since our first meeting. We never even had what is called"--again herlips quivered--'"a lovers' quarrel. '"

"Forgive me, " he said earnestly. "I had to ask you. The question as to whatkind of relations you and he were on when you arrived in Paris has beenraised by almost every human being whom I have seen in the last few days. "

"How horrible! How horrible!" murmured Nancy, hiding her face in her hands. 

Then she raised her head, and looked straight at the lawyer:--"Tell anyonethat asks you that, " she exclaimed, "that no woman was ever made happier bya man than my Jack made me. We were too happy. He said so that lastevening--he said, " she ended her sentence with a sob, "that his happinessmade him afraid--"

"Did he?" questioned Mr. Stephens thoughtfully. "That was an odd thing forhim to say, Nancy. "

But she took no notice of the remark. Instead she, in her turn, asked aquestion:--"Do the police think that Jack may have left me of his ownfree will?"

Mr. Stephens looked extremely uncomfortable. "Well, some of them havethought that it is a possibility which should be kept in view. "

"But you do not think so?" She looked at him searchingly. 

The lawyer's courage failed him. 

"No, of course not, " he said hastily, and poor little Nancy believed him. 

"And now, " he went on quickly, relieved indeed to escape from a painful anddifficult subject, "I, myself, must go home on Saturday. Cannot I persuadeyou to come back to England with me? My wife would be delighted if youwould come to us--and for as long as you like. "

She hesitated--"No, Mr. Stephens, you are very, very kind, but I wouldrather remain on in Paris for a while. Miss Burton has asked me to staywith them till they leave for America. Once they are gone, if I still haveno news, I will do what you wish. I will come back to England. "

The second episode, if episode it can be called, which was to remainvividly present in the memory of the lawyer, took place on the fifth day ofhis stay in Paris. 

He and Gerald had exhausted what seemed every possible line of enquiry, when the latter put in plain words what, in deference to his father's wish, he had hitherto tried to conceal from Mr. Stephens--his suspicions ofthe Poulains. 

"I haven't said so to you before, " he began abruptly, "but I feel quitesure that this Mr. John Dampier is dead. "

He spoke the serious words in low, impressive tones, and the words, thepositive assertion, queerly disturbed Nancy's lawyer, and that though hedid not in the least share in his companion's view. But still he feltdisturbed, perhaps unreasonably so considering how very little he stillknew of the speaker. He was indeed almost as disturbed as he would havebeen had it been his own son who had suddenly put forward a wrong andindeed an untenable proposition. 

He turned and faced Gerald Burton squarely. 

"I cannot agree with you, " he spoke with considerable energy, "and I amsorry you have got such a notion in your mind. I am quite sure that JohnDampier is alive. He may be in confinement somewhere, held toransom--things of that sort have happened in Paris before now. But be thatas it may, it is my firm conviction that we shall have news of him within acomparatively short time. Of course I cannot help seeing what you suspect, namely, that there has been foul play on the part of the Poulains. But noother human being holds this theory but yourself. Your father--you mustforgive me for saying so--has known these people a great deal longer thanyou have, and he tells me he would stake everything on their substantialintegrity. And the police speak very highly of them too. Besides, in thisworld one must look for a motive--indeed, one must always look for amotive. But in this case no one that we know--I repeat, Mr. Burton, no onethat we know of--had any motive for injuring Mr. Dampier. "

Gerald Burton looked up quickly:--"You mean by that there may be someonewhom we do not know of who may have had a motive for spiriting him away?"

Mr. Stephens nodded curtly. He had not meant to say even so much as that. 

"I want you to tell me, " went on the young American earnestly, "exactlywhat sort of a man this John Dampier is--or was?"

The lawyer took off his spectacles; he began rubbing the glasses carefully. 

"Well, " he said at last, "that isn't a question I find it easy to answer. Imade a certain number of enquiries about him when he became engaged to MissTremain, and I am bound to tell you, Mr. Burton, that the answers, as faras they went, were quite satisfactory. The gentleman in whose house the twomet--I mean poor Nancy and Dampier--had, and has, an extremely highopinion of him. "

"Mrs. Dampier once spoke to me as if she thought you did not like herhusband?" Gerald Burton looked straight before him as he said the words hefelt ashamed of uttering. And yet--and yet he did so want to know the truthas to John Dampier!

Mr. Stephens looked mildly surprised. "I don't think I ever gave her anyreason to suppose such a thing, " he said hesitatingly. "Mr. Dampier waseager, as all men in love are eager, to hasten on the marriage. You see, Mr. Burton"--he paused, and Gerald looked up quickly:--

"Yes, Mr. Stephens?"

"Well, to put it plainly, John Dampier was madly in love"--the speakerthought his companion winced, and, rather sorry than glad at the success ofhis little ruse, he hurried on:--"that being so he naturally wished to bemarried at once. But an English marriage settlement--especially when thelady has the money, which was the case with Miss Tremain--cannot be drawnup in a few days. Nancy herself was willing to assent to everything hewished; in fact I had to point out to her that it is impossible to getengaged on Monday and married on Tuesday! I suppose she thought thatbecause I very properly objected to some such scheme of theirs, I dislikedJohn Dampier. This was a most unreasonable conclusion, Mr. Burton!"

Gerald Burton felt disappointed. He did not believe that the English lawyerwas answering truly. He did not stay to reflect that Mr. Stephens was notbound to answer indiscreet questions, and that when a young man asks anolder man whether or no he dislikes someone, and that someone is a client, the question is certainly indiscreet. 

In a small way the painful mystery was further complicated by the attitudeof Mère Bideau. Bribes and threats were alike unavailing to make the oldBreton woman open her mouth. She was full of suspicion; she refused toanswer the simplest questions put to her by either Mr. Stephens orGerald Burton. 

And the lawyer felt a moment of sharp impatience, as business men are sooften apt to feel in their dealings with women, when, in answer to hisremark that Mère Bideau would be brought to her knees when she found hersupplies cut off, Nancy, with tears running down her cheeks, cried out inprotest:--"Oh, Mr. Stephens, don't say that! I would far rather go onpaying the old woman for ever than that she should be brought, as you say, to her knees. She was such a good servant to Jack: he is--he was--sofond of her. "

But Mère Bideau's attitude greatly disconcerted and annoyed the Englishman. He wondered if the old woman knew more than she would admit; he evensuspected her of knowing the whereabouts of her master; the moreimpenetrable became the mystery, the less Mr. Stephens believed Dampierto be dead. 

And then, finally, on the last day of his stay in Paris something happenedwhich, to the lawyer's mind, confirmed his view that John Dampier, havingvanished of his own free will, was living and well--though he hoped nothappy--away from the great city which had been searched, or so the policeassured the Englishman, with a thoroughness which had never been surpassedif indeed it had ever been equalled. 

CHAPTER XIII

With Mr. Stephens' morning coffee there appeared an envelope bearing hisname and a French stamp, as well of course as the address of the obscurelittle hotel where the Burtons had found him a room. 

The lawyer looked down at the envelope with great surprise. The address waswritten in a round, copybook hand, and it was clear his name must have beencopied out of an English law list. 

Who in Paris could be writing to him--who, for the matter of that, knewwhere he was staying, apart from his own family and his London office?

He broke the seal and saw that the sheet of notepaper he took from theenvelope was headed "Préfecture de Police. " Hitherto the police hadaddressed all their communications to the Hôtel Saint Ange. 

The letter ran as follows:

 Dear Sir, I am requested by the official who has the Dampier affair in hand to ask you if you will come here this afternoon at three o'clock. As I shall be present and can act as interpreter, it will not be necessary for you to be accompanied as you were before. 

 Yours faithfully, Ivan Baroff. 

What an extraordinary thing! Up to the present time Mr. Stephens had notcommunicated with a single police official able to speak colloquialEnglish; it was that fact which had made him find Gerald Burton soinvaluable an auxiliary. But this letter might have been written by anEnglishman, though the signature showed it to be from a foreigner, and froma Pole, or possibly a Russian. 

Were the police at last on the trail of the missing man? Mr. Stephens'well-regulated heart began to beat quicker at the thought. But if so, howstrange that the Prefect of Police had not communicated with the HôtelSaint Ange last night! Monsieur Beaucourt had promised that the smallestscrap of news should be at once transmitted to John Dampier's wife. 

Well, there was evidently nothing for it but to wait with what patience hecould muster till the afternoon; and it was characteristic of Nancy's legalfriend that he said nothing of his mysterious appointment to either theBurtons or to Mrs. Dampier. It was useless to raise hopes which might soeasily be disappointed. 

Three o'clock found Mr. Stephens at the Prefecture of Police. 

"Ivan Baroff" turned out to be a polished and agreeable person who at oncefrankly explained that he belonged to the International Police. Indeedwhile shaking hands with his visitor he observed pleasantly, "This is notthe kind of work with which I have, as a rule, anything to do, but mycolleagues have asked me to see you, Mr. Stephens, because I have lived inEngland, and am familiar with your difficult language. I wish to entertainyou on a rather delicate matter. I am sure I may count on your discretion, and, may I add, your sympathy?"

The English lawyer looked straight at the suave-spoken detective. What thedevil did the man mean? "Certainly, " said he, "certainly you can count onmy discretion, Monsieur Baroff, and--and my sympathy. I hope I am notunreasonable in hoping that at last the police have obtained some kind ofdue to Mr. Dampier's whereabouts. "

"No, " said the other indifferently. "That I regret to tell you is not thecase; they are, however, prosecuting their enquiries with the greatestzeal--of hat you may rest assured. "

"So I have been told again and again, " Mr. Stephens spoke ratherimpatiently. "It seems strange--I think I may say so to you who are, likemyself, a foreigner--it seems strange, I say, that the French police, whoare supposed to be so extraordinarily clever, should have failed to findeven a trace of this missing man. Mr. John Dampier can't have vanished fromthe face of the earth: dead or alive, he must be somewhere!"

"There is of course no proof at all that Mr. Dampier ever arrived inParis, " observed the detective significantly. 

"No, there is no actual proof that he did so, " replied the Englishsolicitor frankly. "There I agree! But there is ample proof that he wascoming to Paris. And, as I suppose you know, the Paris police havesatisfied themselves that Mr. And Mrs. Dampier stayed both in Marseillesand in Lyons. "

"Yes, I am aware of that; as also--" he checked himself. "But what I haveto say to you to-day, my dear sir, is only indirectly concerned with Mr. Dampier's disappearance. I am really here to ask if you cannot exert yourinfluence with the Burton family, with the American Senator, that is, andmore particularly with his son, to behave in a reasonable manner. "

"I don't quite understand what you mean. "

"Well, it is not so very easy to explain! All I can say is that young Mr. Burton is making himself very officious, and very disagreeable. He hasadopted a profession which here, at the Prefecture of Police, we naturallydetest"--the Russian smiled, but not at all pleasantly--"I mean that of theamateur detective! He is determined to find Mr. Dampier--or perhaps itwould be more true to say"--he shrugged his shoulders--"that he wishes--thewish perhaps being, as you so cleverly say in England, father to thethought--to be quite convinced of that unfortunate gentleman's obliterationfrom life. He has brought himself to believe--but perhaps he has alreadytold you what he thinks--?"

He waited a moment. 

But the English lawyer made no sign of having understood what the otherwished to imply. "They have all talked to me, " he said mildly, "SenatorBurton, Mr. Burton, Miss Burton; every conceivable possibility has beendiscussed by us. "

"Indeed? Well, with so many clever people all trying together it would bestrange if not one hit upon the truth!" The detective spoke withgood-natured sarcasm. 

"Perhaps we have hit upon it, " said Mr. Stephens suddenly. "What do youthink, Monsieur Baroff?"

"I do not think at all!" he said pettishly. "I am far too absorbed in myown tiresome job--that of keeping my young Princes and Grand Dukes out ofscrapes--to trouble about this peculiar affair. But to return to what I wassaying. You are of course aware that Mr. Gerald Burton is convinced, andvery foolishly convinced (for there is not an atom of proof, or of anythinglikely to lead to proof), that this Mr. Dampier was murdered, if not by thePoulains, then by some friend of theirs in the Hôtel Saint Ange. Thefoolish fellow has as good as said so to more than one of our officials. "

"I know such is Mr. Burton's theory, " answered Mr. Stephens frankly, "andit is one very difficult to shake. In fact I may tell you that I havealready tried to make him see the folly of the notion, and how it is almostcertainly far from the truth. "

"It is not only far from the truth, it is absolutely untrue, " said theRussian impressively. "But what I now wish to convey to the young man isthat should he be so ill-advised as to do what he is thinking of doing hewill make it very disagreeable for the lady in whom he takes so strangelyviolent an interest--"

"What exactly do you mean, Monsieur Baroff?"

"This Mr. Gerald Burton is thinking of enlisting the help of the Americannewspaper men in Paris. He wishes them to raise the question in theirjournals. "

"I do not think he would do that without consulting his father or me, " saidMr. Stephens quickly. He felt dismayed by the other's manner. MonsieurBaroff's tone had become menacing, almost discourteous. 

"Should this headstrong young man do anything of that kind, " went on thedetective, "he will put an end to the efforts we are making to find Mrs. Dampier's husband. In fact I think I may say that if the mystery is neversolved, it will be thanks to his headstrong folly and belief in himself. "

With this the disagreeable interview came to an end, and though the Englishlawyer never confided the details of this curious conversation to anyliving soul, he did make an opportunity of conveying Ivan Baroff's warningto Gerald Burton. 

"Before leaving Paris, " he said earnestly, "there is one thing I want toimpress upon you, Mr. Burton. Do not let any newspaper people get hold ofthis story; I can imagine nothing that would more distress poor Mrs. Dampier. She would be exposed to very odious happenings if thisdisappearance of her husband were made, in any wide sense of the word, public. And then I need not tell you that the Paris Police have a verygreat dislike to press publicity; they are doing their very best--of that Iam convinced--to probe the mystery. "

Gerald Burton hesitated. "I should have thought, " he said, "that it wouldat least be worth while to offer a reward in all the Paris papers. I findthat such rewards are often offered in England, Mr. Stephens. "

"Yes--they are. And very, very seldom with any good result, " answered thelawyer drily. "In fact all the best minds concerned with the question ofcrime have a great dislike to the reward system. Not once in a hundredcases is it of any use. In fact it is only valuable when it may induce acriminal to turn 'King's evidence. ' But in this case I pray you to believeme when I say that we are not seeking to discover the track of anycriminal--" in his own mind he added the words, "unless we take JohnDampier to be one!"

It was on the morning of Mr. Stephens' departure from Paris, in fact whenhe and Senator Burton, who had gone to see him off, were actually in thestation, walking up and down the Salle des Pas Perdus, that the lawyeruttered the words which finally made up the American Senator's mindfor him. 

"You have been so more than good to Mrs. Dampier, " the Englishman saidearnestly, "that I do not feel it would be fair, Mr. Senator, to leave youin ignorance of my personal conviction concerning this painful affair. "

The American turned and looked at his companion. "Yes?" he said withsuppressed eagerness. "Yes, Mr. Stephens, I shall be sincerely grateful foryour honest opinion. "

They had all three--he and Daisy and Gerald--tried to make this Englishmansay what he really thought, but with a courtesy that was sometimes grave, sometimes smiling, Mr. Stephens had eluded their surely legitimatecuriosity. 

Even now the lawyer hesitated, but at last he spoke out what he believed tobe the truth. 

"It is my honest opinion that this disappearance of Mr. Dampier is painfulrather than mysterious. I believe that poor Nancy Tremain's bridegroom, actuated by some motive to which we may never have the clue, made up hismind to disappear. When faced with responsibilities for which they have nomind men before now have often disappeared, Mr. Senator. Lawyers anddoctors, if their experience extend over a good many years, come acrossstories even more extraordinary than that which has been concerningus now!"

"I take it, " said Senator Burton slowly, "that you did not form a goodimpression of this Mr. Dampier?"

The lawyer again hesitated, much as he had hesitated when asked the samequestion by young Burton, but this time he answered quite truthfully. 

"Well, no, I did not! True, he seemed entirely indifferent as to how themoney of his future wife was settled; indeed I could not help feeling thathe was culpably careless about the whole matter. But even so I had one ortwo very disagreeable interviews with him. You see, Senator Burton, the manwas madly in love; he had persuaded poor Nancy to be married at once--andby at once I mean within a fortnight of their engagement. He seemedstrangely afraid of losing her, and I keenly resented this feeling on hispart, for a more loyal little soul doesn't live. She has quite a nicefortune, you know, and for my part I should have liked her to marry somehonest country gentleman in her own country--not an artist livingin Paris. "

"You don't attach much importance to love, Mr. Stephens?"

The lawyer laughed. "Quite enough!" he exclaimed. "Love causes more troublein the world than everything else put together--at any rate it does tomembers of my profession. But to return to poor Nancy. She's a fascinatinglittle creature!" He shot a quick glance at Senator Burton, but the latteronly said cordially:--

"Yes, as fascinating as she's pretty!"

"Well, she had plenty of chances of making a good marriage--but no onetouched her heart till this big, ugly fellow came along. So of course I hadto make the best of it!" He waited a moment and then went on. "I ought totell you that at my suggestion Dampier took out a large insurance policy onhis own life: I didn't think it right that he should bring, as it were, nothing into settlement, the more so that Nancy had insisted, on her side, that all her money should go to him at her death, and that whether they hadany children or not! You know what women are?" he shrugged his shoulders. 

"If that be so, " observed the Senator, "then money can have had nothing todo with his disappearance. "

"I'm not so sure of that! In fact I've been wondering uneasily during thelast few days whether, owing to his being an artist, and to his havinglived so much abroad, John Dampier could have been foolish enough tosuppose that in the case of his disappearance the insurance money would bepaid over to Mrs. Dampier. That, of course, would be one important reasonwhy he should wish to obliterate himself as completely as he seems to havedone. I need hardly tell you, Mr. Senator, that the Insurance Office wouldlaugh in my face if I were to try and make them pay. Why, years will haveto elapse before our courts would even consider the probability of death. "

"I now understand your view, " said the Senator gravely. "But even if it bethe true solution, it does not explain the inexplicable difference betweenMrs. Dampier's statement and that of the Poulains--I mean, their statementsas to what happened the night Mr. And Mrs. Dampier arrived in Paris. "

"No, " said the lawyer reluctantly. "I admit that to me this is the oneinexplicable part of the whole story. And I also confess that as to thatone matter I find it impossible to make up my mind. If I had not known poorlittle Nancy all her life, I should believe, knowing what women are capableof doing if urged thereto by pride or pain--I should believe, I say, thatshe had made up this strange story to account for her husband's having lefther! I could tell you more than one tale of a woman having deceived notonly her lawyer, but, later, a judge and a jury, as to such a point offact. But from what I know of Mrs. Dampier she would be quite incapable ofinventing, or perhaps what is quite as much to the purpose, of keeping upsuch a deception. "

"From something my daughter said, " observed Senator Burton, "I think youhave been trying to persuade the poor little lady to go back to England?"

"Yes, I tried to make her come back with me to-day. And I am bound to saythat I succeeded better than I expected to do, for though she refuses tocome now, she does intend to do so when you yourselves leave Paris, Mr. Senator. Fortunately she does not know what sort of a time she will comeback to: I fear that most of her friends will feel exactly as I feel; theywill not believe that John Dampier has disappeared save of his own freewill--and some of them will suppose it their duty to tell her so!"

"It is the view evidently held by the French police, " observed the Senator. 

The English lawyer shrugged his shoulders. "Of course it is! The fact thatDampier had hardly any money on him disposes of any crime theory. Awonderful thing the Paris police system, Mr. Burton!"

And the other cordially agreed; nothing could have been more courteous, more kind, more intelligent, than the behaviour of the high policeofficials, from the Prefect himself downwards, over the whole business. 

Mr. Stephens glanced up at the huge station clock. "I have only fiveminutes left, " he said. "But I want to say again how much I appreciate yourextraordinary kindness and goodness to my poor client. And, Mr. Senator?There's just one thing more I want to say to you--" For the first time theEnglish lawyer looked awkward and ill at ease. 

"Why yes, Mr. Stephens! Pray say anything you like. "

"Well, my dear sir, I should like to give you a very sincere piece ofadvice. " He hesitated. "If I were you I should go back to America as soonas possible. I feel this sad affair has thoroughly spoilt your visit toParis; and speaking as a man who has children himself, I am sure it has notbeen well, either for Miss Daisy or for your son, to have become absorbed, as they could hardly help becoming, in this distressing business. "

The American felt slightly puzzled by the seriousness with which the otherdelivered this well-meant but wholly superfluous advice. What just exactlydid the lawyer mean by these solemnly delivered words?

"Why, " said the Senator, "you're quite right, Mr. Stephens; it has been anordeal, especially for my girl Daisy: she hasn't had air and exerciseenough during this last fortnight, let alone change of thought and scene. But, as a matter of fact, I am settling about our passages to-day, on myway back to the hotel. "

"I am very glad to hear that!" exclaimed the other, with far moresatisfaction and relief in his voice than seemed warranted. "And I presumethat your son will find lots of work awaiting him on his return home?There's nothing like work to chase cobwebs from the brain or--or heart, Mr. Senator. "

"That's true: not that there are many cobwebs in my boy's brain, Mr. Stephens, " he smiled broadly at the notion. 

"Messieurs! Mesdames! En voiture, s'il vous plait. En voiture--!"

A few minutes later Mr. Stephens waved his hand from his railway carriage, and as he did so he wondered if he himself had ever been as obtuse a fatheras his new American friend seemed to be. 

As he walked away from the station Senator Burton made up his mind to goback on foot, taking the office of the Transatlantic Steamship Company onhis way. And while he sauntered through the picturesque, lively streets ofthe Paris he loved with so familiar and appreciative an admiration, theAmerican found his thoughts dwelling on the events of the last fortnight. 

Yes, it had been a strange, an extraordinary experience--one which he andhis children would never forget, which they would often talk over in daysto come. Poor little Nancy Dampier! His kind, fatherly heart went out toher with a good deal of affection, and yes, of esteem. She had behaved withwonderful courage and good sense--and with dignity too, when one rememberedthe extraordinary position in which she had been placed with regard tothe Poulains. 

The Poulains? For the hundredth time he wondered where the truth reallylay. .. . But he soon dismissed the difficult problem, for now he had reachedthe offices of the French Transatlantic Company. There the Senator'sofficial rank caused him to be treated with very special civility; at oncehe was assured that three passages would be reserved for him on practicallywhat boat he liked: he suggested the Lorraine, sailing in ten days time, and he had the satisfaction of seeing good cabins booked in his name. 

And as he walked away, slightly cheered, as men are apt to be, by thepleasant deference paid to his wishes, he told himself that before leavingParis he must arrange for a cable to be at once dispatched should therecome any news of the mysterious, and at once unknown and familiar, JohnDampier. Mrs. Dampier would surely find his request a natural one, the moreso that Daisy and Gerald would be just as eager to hear news as he himselfwould be. He had never known anything take so firm a hold of his son's anddaughter's imaginations. 

On reaching the Hôtel Saint Ange the Senator went over to Madame Poulain'skitchen; it was only right to give her the date of their departure as soonas possible. 

"Well, " he said with a touch of regret in his voice, "we shall soon begoing off now, Madame Poulain. Next Tuesday-week you will have to wish usbon voyage!"

And instead of seeing the good woman's face cloud over, as it had alwayshitherto clouded over, when he had sought her out to say that their stay inParis was drawing to a close, he saw a look of intense relief, ofundisguised joy, flash into her dark expressive eyes, and that though sheobserved civilly, "Quel dommage, Monsieur le Sénateur, that you cannot staya little longer!"

He moved away abruptly, feeling unreasonably mortified. 

But Senator Burton was a very just man; he prided himself on his fairnessof outlook; and now he reminded himself quickly that their stay at theHôtel Saint Ange had not brought unmixed good fortune to the Poulains. Itwas natural that Madame Poulain should long to see the last of them--at anyrate this time. 

He found Gerald alone, seated at a table, intent on a letter he waswriting. Daisy, it seemed, had persuaded Mrs. Dampier to go out for a walkbefore luncheon. 

"Well, my boy, we shall have to make the best of the short time remainingto us in Paris. I have secured passages in the Lorraine, and so we now onlyhave till Tuesday-week to see everything in Paris which this unhappy affairhas prevented our seeing during the last fortnight. "

And then it was that the something happened, that the irreparable wordswere spoken, which suddenly and most rudely opened the Senator's eyes to atruth which the English lawyer had seen almost from the first moment of hisstay in Paris. 

Gerald Burton started up. His face was curiously pale under its healthytan, but the Senator noticed that his son's eyes were extraordinarilybright. 

"Father?" He leant across the round table. "I am not going home with you. In fact I am now writing to Mr. Webb to tell him that he must not expect meback at the office for the present: I will cable as soon as I can givehim a date. "

"Not going home?" repeated Senator Burton. "What do you mean, Gerald? Whatis it that should keep you here after we have gone?" but a curioussensation of fear and dismay was already clutching at the olderman's heart. 

"I am never going back--not till John Dampier is found. I have promisedMrs. Dampier to find him, and that whether he be alive or dead!"

Even then the Senator tried not to understand. Even then he tried to tellhimself that his son was only actuated by some chivalrous notion of keepinghis word, in determining on a course which might seriously damagehis career. 

He tried quiet expostulation: "Surely, Gerald, you are not serious inmaking such a decision? Mrs. Dampier, from what I know of her, would be. The last to exact from you the fulfilment of so--so unreasonable a promise. Why, you and I both know quite well that the Paris police, and also Mr. Stephens, are convinced that this man Dampier just left his wife of his ownfree will. "

"I know they think that! But it's a lie!" cried Gerald with blazing eyes. "An infamous lie! I should like to see Mr. Stephens dare suggest such anotion to John Dampier's wife. Not that she is his wife, father, for I'msure the man is dead--and I believe--I hope that she's beginning tothink so too!"

"But if Dampier is dead, Gerald, then--" the Senator was beginning to losepatience, but he was anxious not to lose his temper too, not to makehimself more unpleasant than he must do. "Surely you see yourself, my boy, that if the man is dead, there's nothing more for you to do here, in Paris?"

"Father, there's everything! The day I make sure that John Dampier is deadwill be the happiest day of my life. " His voice had sunk low, he mutteredthe last words between his teeth; but alas! the Senator heard them alltoo clearly. 

"Gerald!" he said gravely. "Gerald? Am I to understand--"

"Father--don't say anything you might be sorry for afterwards! Yes, youhave guessed truly. I love Nancy! If the man is dead--and I trust to God heis--I hope to marry her some day. If--if you and Mr. Stephens are right--ifhe is still alive--well then--" he waited a moment, and that moment was thelongest the Senator had ever known--"then, father, I promise you I willcome home. But in that case I shall never, never marry anybody else. Daisyknows, " went on the young man, unconsciously dealing his father anotherbitter blow. "Daisy knows--she guessed, and--she understands. "

"And does she approve?" asked the Senator sternly. 

"I don't know--I don't care!" cried Gerald fiercely. "I am not looking foranyone's approval. And, father?" His voice altered, it became what theother had never heard his son's voice be, suppliant:--"I have trusted youwith my secret--but let it be from now as if I had not spoken. I beg of younot to discuss it with Daisy--I need not ask you not to speak of it toanybody else. "

The Senator nodded. He was too agitated, too horror-stricken to speak, andhis agitation was not lessened by his son's final words. 

EPILOGUE

I

It is two years to a day since John Dampier disappeared, and it is onlyowing to one man's inflexible determination that the search for him has notbeen abandoned long ago. 

And now we meet Senator Burton far in body, if not in mind, from the placewhere we last met him. 

He is standing by an open window, gazing down on one of the fairest sightscivilised nature has to offer--that of an old English garden filled withfragrant flowers which form scented boundaries of soft brilliant colour towide lawns shaded by great cedar trees. 

But as he stands there in the early morning sunlight, for it is only sixo'clock, he does not look in harmony with the tranquil beauty of the scenebefore him. There is a stern, troubled expression on his face, for he hasjust espied two figures walking side by side across the dewy grass; the oneis his son Gerald, the other Nancy Dampier, still in the delicate anddangerous position of a woman who is neither wife, maid, nor widow. 

The Senator's whole expression has changed in the two years. He used tolook a happy, contented man; now, especially when he is alone and his faceis in repose, he has the disturbed, bewildered expression men's faces bearwhen Providence or Fate--call it which you will--has treated them in a waythey feel to be unbearably unfair, as well as unexpected. 

And yet the majority of mankind would consider this American to besupremely blessed. The two children he loves so dearly are as fondlyattached to him as ever they were; and there has also befallen him a pieceof quite unexpected good fortune. A distant relation, from whom he had noexpectations, has left him a fortune "as a token of admiration for his highintegrity. "

Senator Burton is now a very rich man, and because Daisy fancied it wouldplease her brother they have taken for the summer this historic Englishmanor house, famed all the world over to those interested in mediaevalarchitecture, as Barwell Moat. 

Here he, Daisy, and Nancy Dampier have already been settled for a week;Gerald only joined them yesterday from Paris. 

Early though it is, the Senator has already been up and dressed over anhour; and he has spent the time unprofitably, in glancing over his diary oftwo years ago, in conning, that is, the record of that strange, excitingfortnight which so changed his own and his children's lives. 

He has read over with pain and distaste the brief words in which hechronicled that first chance meeting with Nancy Dampier. What excitement, what adventures, and yes, what bitter sorrow had that chance meeting underthe porte cochère of the Hôtel Saint Ange brought in its train! If only heand Daisy had started out an hour earlier on that June morning just twoyears ago how much they would have been spared. 

As for the fortune left to him, Senator Burton is now inclined to thinkthat it has brought him less than no good. It has only provided Gerald withan excuse, which to an American father is no excuse, for neglecting hisprofession. Further, it has enabled the young man to spend money in aprodigal fashion over what even he now acknowledges to have been a hopelessquest, though even at the present moment detectives in every capital inEurope are watching for a clue which may afford some notion as to thewhereabouts of John Dampier. 

John Dampier? Grim, relentless spectre who pursues them unceasingly, andfrom whose menacing, shadowy presence they are never free--from whom, sothe Senator has now despairingly come to believe, they never, never willbe free. .. . 

He had stopped his diary abruptly on the evening of that now far-off daywhen his eyes had been so rudely opened to his son's state of mind andheart. But though he has no written record to guide him the Senator findsit only too easy, on this beautiful June morning, to go back, in drearyretrospective, over these two long years. 

Gerald had not found it possible to keep his rash vow; there had come a daywhen he had had to go back to America--indeed, he has been home threetimes. But those brief visits of his son to his own country brought thefather no comfort, for each time Gerald left behind him in Europe not onlyhis heart, but everything else that matters to a man--his interests, hislongings, his hopes. 

Small wonder that in time Senator Burton and Daisy had also fallen into theway of spending nearly the whole of the Senator's spare time in Europe, andwith Nancy Dampier. 

Nancy? The mind of the watcher by the window turns to her too, as hevisions the slender, graceful figure now pacing slowly by his son's side. 

Is it unreasonable that, gradually withdrawing herself from her oldfriends, those friends who did not believe that Dampier had left her saveof his own free will, Nancy should cling closer and closer to her newfriends? No, not at all unreasonable, but, from the Senator's point ofview, very unfortunate. Daisy and Nancy are now like sisters, and to theSenator himself she shows the loving deference, the affection of adaughter, but with regard to the all-important point of her relations toGerald, none of them know the truth--indeed, it may be doubted if she knowsit herself. 

But the situation gets more difficult, more strained every month, everyweek, almost every day. Senator Burton feels that the time has come whensomething must be done to end it--one way or the other--and the day beforeyesterday he sought out Mr. Stephens, now one of his closest friends andadvisers, in order that they might confer together on the matter. As hestands there looking down at the two figures walking across the dewy grass, he remembers with a sense of boding fear the conversation withNancy's lawyer. 

"There's nothing to be done, my poor friend, nothing at all! Our Englishmarriage laws are perfectly clear, and though this is a very, very hardcase, I for my part have no wish to see them altered. "

And the Senator had answered with heat, "I cannot follow you there at all!The law which ties a living woman to a man who may be dead, nay, probablyis dead, is a monstrous law. "

And Mr. Stephens had answered very quietly, "What if John Dampier bealive?"

"And is this all I can tell my poor son?"

And then it was that Mr. Stephens, looking at him doubtfully, had answered, "Well no, for there is a way out. It is not a good way--I doubt if it is aright way--but still it is a way. It is open to poor little Nancy to go toAmerica, to become naturalized there, and then to divorce her husband, inone of your States, for desertion. The divorce so obtained would be nodivorce in England, but many Englishmen and Englishwomen have taken thatcourse as a last resort--" He had waited a moment, and then added, "Idoubt, however, very, very much if Nancy would consent to do such a thing, even if she reciprocates--which is by no means sure--yourson's--er--feeling for her. "

"Feeling?" Senator Burton's voice had broken, and then he had cried outfiercely, "Why use such an ambiguous word, when we both know that Gerald iskilling himself for love of her--and giving up the finest career everopened to a man? If Mrs. Dampier does not reciprocate what you choose tocall his 'feeling' for bet, then she is the coldest and most ungratefulof women!"

"I don't think she is either the one or the other, " had observed Mr. Stephens mildly; and he had added under his breath, "It would be the betterfor her if she were--Believe me the only way to force her to consider theexpedient I have suggested--" he had hesitated as if rather ashamed of whathe was about to say, "would be for Gerald to tell her the search for Mr. Dampier must now end--and that the time has come when he must go back toAmerica--and work. "

Small wonder that Senator Burton found it hard to sleep last night, smallwonder he has risen so early. He knows that his son is going to speak toNancy, to tell her what Mr. Stephens has suggested she should do, and hesuspects that now, at this very moment, the decisive conversation may betaking place. 

II

Though unconscious that anxious, yearning eyes are following them, bothNancy Dampier and Gerald Burton feel an instinctive desire to get away fromthe house, and as far as may be from possible eavesdroppers. They walkacross the stretch of lawn which separates the moat from the gardens in aconstrained silence, she following rather than guiding her companion. 

But as if this charming old-world plesaunce were quite familiar to him, Gerald goes straight on, down a grass path ending in what appears to be ahigh impenetrable wall of yew, and Nancy, surprised, then sees that anarrow, shaft-like way leads straight through the green leafy depths. 

"Why, Gerald?" she says a little nervously--they have long ago abandonedany more formal mode of address, though between them there stands ever thespectre of poor John Dampier, as present to one of the two, and he the man, as if the menacing shadow were in very truth a tangible presence. "Why, Gerald, where does this lead? Have you ever been here before?"

And for the first time since they met the night before, the young mansmiles. "I thought I'd like to see an English sunrise, Nancy, so I've beenup a long time. I found a rose garden through here, and I thought it wouldbe a quiet place for our talk. "

It is strangely dark and still under the dense evergreen arch of theslanting way carved through the yew hedge; Nancy can only grope her wayalong. Turning round, Gerald holds out his strong hands, and taking hers inwhat seems so cool, so impersonal a grasp, he draws her after him. AndNancy flushes in the half darkness; it is the first time that she andGerald Burton have ever been alone together as they are alone now, and thatthough they have met so very, very often in the last two years. 

Nancy is at once glad and sorry when he suddenly loosens his grasp of herhands. The shadowed way terminates in a narrow wrought-iron gate; andbeyond the gate is the rose garden of Barwell Moat, a tangle of exquisitecolouring, jealously guarded and hidden away from those to whom the morefamiliar beauties of the place are free. 

It is one of the oldest of English roseries, planned by some Elizabethandame who loved solitude rather than the sun. And if the roses bloom alittle less freely in this quiet, still enclosure than they would do ingreater light and wilder air, this gives the rosery, in these hot Junedays, a touch of austere and more fragile beauty than that to be seenbeyond its enlacing yews. 

A hundred years after the Elizabethan lady had designed the rosery ofBarwell Moat a Jacobean dame had added to her rose garden a fountain--onebrought maybe from Italy or France, for the fat stone Cupids now shakingslender jets of water from their rose-leaved cornucopias are full of aroguish, Southern grace. 

When they have passed through into this fragrant, enchanted lookingretreat, Nancy cries out in real delight: "What an exquisite and lovelyplace! How strange that Daisy and I never found it!"

And then, as Gerald remains silent, she looks, for the first time thismorning, straight up into his face, and her heart is filled with a suddenoverwhelming sensation of suspense--and yes, fear, for there is thestrangest expression on the young man's countenance, indeed it is full ofdeep, of violent emotion--emotion his companion finds contagious. 

She tells herself that at last he has brought news. That if he did not tellher so last night it was because he wished her to have one more night ofpeace--of late poor Nancy's nights have become very peaceful. 

John Dampier? There was a time--it now seems long, long ago--when Nancywould have given not only her life but her very soul to have known that herhusband was safe, that he would come back to her. But now? Alas! Alas! Nowshe realises with an agonised feeling of horror, of self-loathing, that sheno longer wishes to hear Gerald Burton say that he has kept his word--thathe has found Dampier. 

She prays God that nothing of what she is feeling shows in her face; andGerald is far too moved, far too doubtful as to what he is to say to her, and as to the answer she will make to him, to see that she looks in any waydifferent from what she always does look in his eyes--the most beautiful aswell as the most loved and worshipped of human creatures. 

"Tell me!" she gasps. "Tell me, Gerald? What is it you want to say to me?Don't keep me in suspense--" and then, as he is still dumb, she adds with acry, "Have you come to tell me that at last you have found Jack?"

And he pulls himself together with a mighty effort. Nancy's words haverudely dispelled the hopes with which his heart has been filled ever sincehis father came to his room last night and told him what Mr. Stephens hadsuggested as a possible way out of the present, intolerable situation. 

"No, " he says sombrely, "no, Nancy, I have brought you no good news, and Iam beginning to fear I never shall. "

And he does not see even now that the long quivering sigh which escapesfrom her pale lips is a sigh of unutterable--if of pained andshamed--relief. 

But what is this he is now saying, in a voice which is so unsteady, sooddly unlike his own?

"I think--God forgive me for thinking so if I am wrong--that I have alwaysbeen right, Nancy, that your husband is dead--that he was killed two yearsago, the night he disappeared--"

She bends her head. Yes, she too believes that, though there was a timewhen she fought, with desperate strength, against the belief. 

He goes on breathlessly, hoarsely, aware that he is making what Mr. Stephens would call a bad job of it all: "I am now beginning to doubtwhether we shall ever discover the truth as to what did happen. His bodymay still lie concealed somewhere in the Hôtel Saint Ange, and if that isso, there's but small chance indeed that we shall ever, ever learnthe truth. "

And again she bends her head. 

"I fear the time is come, Nancy, when the search must be given up. "

He utters the fateful words very quietly, very gently, but even so shefeels a pang of startled fear. Does that mean--yes, of course it must mean, that Gerald is going away, back to America?

A feeling of dreadful desolation fills her heart. "Yes, " she says in a lowtone, "I think you are right. I think the search should be given up. "

She would like to utter words of thanks, the conventional words ofgratitude she has uttered innumerable times in the last two years--but nowthey stick in her throat. 

Tears smart into her eyes, stifled sobs burst from her lips. 

And Gerald again misunderstands--misunderstands her tears, the sobs whichtear and shake her slender body. But he is only too familiar with thefeeling which now grips him--the feeling that he must rush forward and takeher in his arms. It has never gripped him quite as strongly as it does now;and so he steps abruptly back, and puts more of the stone rim of thefountain between himself and that forlorn little figure. 

"Nancy?" he cries. "I was a brute to say that. Of course I will go on! Ofcourse we won't give up hope! It's natural that I should sometimes becomedisheartened. "

He is telling himself resolutely that never, never will he propose to herthe plan his father revealed to him last night. How little either hisfather or Mr. Stephens had understood the relation between himself andNancy if they supposed that he, of all men, could make to her such asuggestion. 

And then he suddenly sees in Nancy's sensitive face, in her large blue eyesthat unconscious beckoning, calling look every lover longs to see in theface of his beloved. .. . 

They each instinctively move towards the other, and in a flash Nancy is inhis arms and he is holding her strained to his heart, while his lips seek, find, cling to her sweet, tremulous mouth. 

But the moment of rapture, of almost unendurable bliss is short indeed, forsuddenly he feels her shrinking from him, and though for yet another momenthe holds her against her will, the struggle soon ends, and he releases her, feeling what he has never yet felt when with her, that is, bewildered, hurt, and yes, angry. 

And then, when she sees that new alien glance of anger in eyes which havenever looked at her but kindly, Nancy feels a dreadful pang of pain, aswell as of shamed distress. She creeps up nearer to him, and puts her handimploringly on his arm--that arm which a moment ago held her so closely tohim, but which now hangs, apparently nerveless, by his side. 

"Gerald!" she whispers imploringly. "Don't be angry with me, " and her voicedrops still lower as she adds piteously, "You see, I knew we were doingwrong. I--I felt wicked. "

And then, as he still makes no answer, she grows more keenly distressed. "Gerald?" she says again. "You may kiss me if you like. " And as he onlylooks down at her, taking no advantage of the reluctant permission, shefalters out the ill-chosen words, "Don't you know how grateful I amto you?"

And then, stung past endurance, he turns on her savagely:--"Does that meanthat I have bought the right to kiss you?"

But as, at this, she bursts into bitter tears, he again takes her in hisarms, and he does kiss her, violently, passionately, hungrily. He is only aman after all. 

But alas! These other kisses leave behind them a bitter taste. They lackthe wild, exquisite flavour of the first. 

At last he tells her, haltingly, slowly, of Mr. Stephens' suggestion, butcarefully as he chooses his words he feels her shrinking, wincing at theimages they conjure up; and he tells himself with impatient self-reproachthat he has been too quick, too abrupt--that he ought to have allowed thenotion to sink into her mind slowly, that he should have made Daisy, oreven his father, be his ambassador. 

"I couldn't do that!" she whispers at last, and he sees that she has turnedvery white. "I don't think I could ever do that! Think how awful it wouldbe if--if after I had done such a thing I found that poor Jack was notdead? Some time ago--I have never told you of this--some friend, meaning tobe kind, sent me a cutting from a paper telling of a foreigner who had beentaken up for mad in Italy, and confined in a lunatic asylum for years andyears! You don't know how that story haunted me. It haunted me for weeks. You wouldn't like me to do anything I thought wrong, Gerald?"

"No, " he says moodily. "No, Nancy--I will never ask you to do anything youthink wrong. " He adds with an effort, "I told my father last night that Idoubted if you would ever consent to such a thing. "

And then she asks an imprudent question:--"And what did he say then?" shesays in a troubled, unhappy voice. 

"D'you really want to know what he said?"

She creeps a little nearer to him, she even takes his hand. "Yes, Gerald. Tell me. "

"He said that if you wouldn't consent to do some such thing, why then Ishould be doing wrong to stay in Europe. He said--I little knew how true itwas--that soon you would learn that I loved you, and that then--that thenthe situation would become intolerable. "

"Intolerable?" she repeats in a low, strained tone. "Oh no, notintolerable, Gerald! Surely you don't feel that?"

And this time it is Gerald who winces, who draws back; but suddenly hisheart fills up, brims over with a great, an unselfish tenderness--forNancy, gazing up at him, looks disappointed as a child, not a woman, looks, when disappointed of a caress; and so he puts his arms round her and kissesher very gently, very softly, in what he tells himself is a kind, brotherlyfashion. "You know I'll do just whatever you wish, " he murmurs. 

And contentedly she nestles against him. "Oh, Gerald, " she whispers back, "how good you are to me! Can't we always be reasonable--like this?"

And he smiles, a little wryly. "Why, yes, " he says, "of course we can! Andnow, Nancy, it's surely breakfast time. Let's go back to the house. "

And Nancy, perhaps a little surprised, a little taken aback at his sudden, cheerful acceptance of her point of view, follows him through the darkpassage cut in the yew hedge. She supposes--perhaps she even hopes--thatbefore they emerge into the sun light he will turn and again kiss her inthe reasonable, tender way he did just now. 

But Gerald does not even turn round and grasp her two hands as he didbefore. He leaves her to grope her way behind him as best she can, and asthey walk across the lawn he talks to her in a more cheerful, indifferentway than he has ever done before. Once they come close up to the house, however, he falls into a deep silence. 

III

It is by the merest chance that they stay in that afternoon, for it hasbeen a long, a wretched day for them all. 

Senator Burton and his daughter are consumed with anxiety, with a desire toknow what has taken place, but all they can see is that Gerald and Nancyboth look restless, miserable, and ill at ease with one another. Daisyfurther suspects that Nancy is avoiding Gerald, and the suspicion makes herfeel anxious and uncomfortable. 

As for the Senator, he begins to feel that he hates this beautiful oldhouse and its lovely gardens; he has never seen Gerald look as unhappyanywhere as he looks here. 

At last he seeks his son out, and, in a sense, forces his confidence. "Well, my boy?"

"Well, father, she doesn't feel she can do it! She thinks that Dampier maybe alive after all. If you don't mind I'd rather not talk about herjust now. "

And then the Senator tells himself, for the hundredth time in the last twoyears, that they have now come to the breaking point--that if Nancy willnot take the only reasonable course open to her, then that Gerald must benerved to make, as men have so often had to make, the great renouncement. To go on as he is now doing is not only wrong as regards himself, it iswrong as regards his sister Daisy. 

There is a man in America who loves Daisy--a man too of whom the Senatorapproves as much as he can of anyone who is anxious to take his daughterfrom him. And Daisy, were her heart only at leisure, might respond; butalas! her heart is not at leisure, it is wholly absorbed in the affairs ofher brother and of her friend. 

At last the high ritual of English afternoon tea brings them out alltogether on the lawn in front of the house. 

Deferentially consulted by the solemn-faced, suave-mannered butler, whoseems as much part of Barwell Moat as do the gabled dormer windows, DaisyBurton decides that tea is to be set out wherever it generally is set outby the owners of the house. Weightily she is informed that "her ladyship"has tea served sometimes in that part of the garden which is called therosery, sometimes on the front lawn, and the butler adds the crypticinformation, "according as to whether her ladyship desires to seevisitors or not. "

Daisy does not quite see what difference the fact of tea being served inone place or another can make to apocryphal visitors, so, with whatcheerfulness she can muster, she asks the others which they would prefer. And at once, a little to her surprise, Nancy and Gerald answersimultaneously, "Oh, let us have tea on the lawn, not--not in the rosery!"

And it is there, in front of the house, that within a very few minutes theyare all gathered together, and for the first time that day Senator Burton'sheart lightens a little. 

He is amused at the sight of those three men--the butler and his twofootmen satellites--gravely making their elaborate preparations. Chairs arebrought out, piles of cushions are flung about in bounteous profusion, eventwo hammocks are slung up--all in an incredibly short space of time: andthe American tenant of Barwell Moat tells himself that the scene before himmight be taken from one of the stories of his favourite British novelist, good old Anthony Trollope. 

Ah me! How happy they all might be this afternoon were it not for the everpresent unspoken hopes and fears which fill their hearts!

Daisy sits down behind the tea-table; and the cloud lifts a little fromGerald's stern, set face; the three young people even laugh and joke alittle together. 

The Senator glances at Nancy Dampier; she is looking very lovely thisafternoon, but her face is flushed, her manner is restless, agitated, shelooks what he has never seen her look till to-day, thoroughly ill at ease, and yet, yes, certainly less listless, more alive than she lookedyesterday--before Gerald's arrival. 

What strange creatures women are! The Senator does not exactly disapproveof Nancy's decision, but he regrets it bitterly. If only she would throw inher lot with Gerald--come to America, her mind made up never to return toEurope again, why then even now they might all be happy. 

But her face, soft though it be in repose, is not that of a weak woman; itis that of one who, thinking she knows what should be her duty, will befaithful to it; and it is also the face of a woman reserved in theexpression of her feelings. Senator Burton cannot make up his mind whetherNancy realises Gerald's measureless, generous devotion. Is she even awareof all that he has sacrificed for her? Daisy says yes--Daisy declares thatNancy "cares" for Gerald--but then Daisy herself is open-hearted andgenerous like her brother. 

And while these painful thoughts, these half-formed questions and answers, weave in and out through Senator Burton's brain, there suddenly falls aloud grinding sound on his ears, and a motor-car sweeps into view. 

Now, at last, Daisy Burton understands the butler's cryptic remark! Here, in front of the house, escape from visitors is, of course, impossible. Shefeels a pang of annoyance at her own stupidity for not having understood, but there is no help for it--and very soon three people, a middle-aged ladyand two gentlemen, are advancing over the green sward. 

The Senator and his daughter rise, and walk forward to meet them. Geraldand Nancy remain behind. Indeed the young man hardly sees the strangers; heis only conscious of a deep feeling of relief that the solicitous eyes ofhis father and sister are withdrawn from him and Nancy. 

Since this morning he has been in a strange state of alternating raptureand despair. He feels as if he and Nancy, having just found one another, are now doomed to part. Ever since he held her in his arms he has achedwith loneliness and with thwarted longing; during the whole of this longday Nancy has eluded him; not for a single moment have they been alonetogether. And now all his good resolutions--the resolutions which stood himin such good stead in that dark, leafy tunnel--have vanished. He now facesthe fact that they cannot hope, when once more alone and heart to heart, tobe what Nancy calls "reasonable. ". .. 

Suddenly he comes back to the drab realities of every-day life. His fatheris introducing him to the visitors--first to the lady: "Mrs. Arbuthnot--myson, Gerald Burton. Mrs. Dampier--Mrs. Arbuthnot. " And then to the two men, Mr. Arbuthnot and a Mr. Dallas. 

There is a quick interchange of talk. The newcomers are explaining who andwhat they are. Mr. Robert Arbuthnot is a retired Anglo-Indian official, andhe and his wife have now lived for two years in the dower house which formspart of the Barwell Moat estate. 

"I should not have called quite so soon had it not been that our friend, Mr. Dallas, is only staying with us for two or three days, and he is mostanxious to meet you, Mr. Senator. Mr. Dallas is one of the Officers ofHealth for the Port of London. He read some years ago"--she turns smilinglyto the gentleman in question--"a very interesting pamphlet with which youseem to have been in some way concerned, about the Port of New York. "

The Senator is flattered to find how well Mr. Dallas remembers that oldreport of which he was one of the signatories. For a moment he forgets histroubles; and the younger people--Mrs. Arbuthnot also--remain silent whilethese three men, who have each had a considerable experience of greataffairs, begin talking of the problems which face those who have vastmasses of human beings to consider and legislate for. 

Mr. Dallas talks the most; he is one of those cheerful, eager Englishmenwho like the sound of their own voices: he is also one of those fortunatepeople who take an intense interest in the work they are set to do. In Mr. Dallas's ears there is no pleasanter sounding word than the word"sanitation. "

"Ah, " he says, turning smilingly to the Senator, "how I envy my New Yorkcolleagues! They have plenary powers. They are real autocrats!"

"They would be but for our press, " answers the Senator. "I wonder if youheard anything of the scrape Dr. Cranebrook got into last year?"

"Of course I did! I heard all about it, and I felt very sorry for him. Butour London press is getting almost as bad! Government by newspaper--" heshakes his head expressively. "And my friend Arbuthnot tells me that it'sbecoming really serious in India; there the native press is getting moreand more power. Ah well! They do those things better in France. "

And then Mrs. Arbuthnot's voice is heard at last. "My husband and Mr. Dallas have only just come back from Paris, Miss Burton. Mr. Dallas wentover on business, and my husband accompanied him. They had a mostinteresting time: they spent a whole day at the Prefecture of Police withthe Prefect himself--"

She stops speaking, and wonders a little why a sudden silence has fallenover the whole group of these pleasant Americans--for she takes Nancy to bean American too. 

But the sudden silence--so deep, so absolute that it reminds Mrs. Arbuthnotof the old saying that when such a stillness falls on any company someonemust be walking over their graves--is suddenly broken. 

Mr. Dallas jumps to his feet. He is one of those men who never like sittingstill very long. "May I have another lump of sugar, Miss Burton? We werespeaking of Paris, --talk of muzzling the press, they know how to muzzletheir press in grim earnest in Paris! Talk of suppressing the truth, theydon't even begin to tell the truth there. The Tsar of Russia as an autocratisn't in it with the Paris Prefect of Police!"

And two of his listeners say drearily to themselves that Mr. Dallas is avery ignorant man after all. He is evidently one of the many foolish peoplewho believe the French police omnipotent. 

But the Englishman goes happily on, quite unconscious that he is treadingon what has become forbidden ground in the Burton family circle. "Thepresent man's name is Beaucourt, a very pleasant fellow! He told me someastounding stories. I wonder if you'd like to hear the one which struckme most?"

He looks round, pleased at their attention, at the silence which has againfallen on them all, and which he naturally takes for consent. 

Eagerly he begins: "It was two years ago, at the height of their Exhibitionseason, and of course Paris was crammed--every house full, from cellar toattic! Monsieur Beaucourt tells me that there were more than five hundredthousand strangers in the city for whose safety, and incidentally for whosehealth, he was responsible!"

He waits a moment, that thought naturally impresses him more than it doeshis audience. 

"Well, into that gay maelstrom there suddenly arrived a couple of youngforeigners. They were well-to-do, and what impressed the little storyparticularly on Monsieur Beaucourt's mind was the fact that they were ontheir honeymoon--you know how sentimental the French are!"

Mr. Dallas looks around. They are all gazing at him with upturnedfaces--never had he a more polite, a more attentive circle of listeners. There is, however, one exception: his old friend, Mr. Arbuthnot, puts hishand up to conceal a yawn; he has heard the story before. 

"Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, these young people--Monsieur Beaucourt thinksthey were Americans--had gone to Italy for their honeymoon, and they wereending up in Paris. They arrived late at night--I think formMarseilles--and most providentially they were put on different floors inthe hotel they had chosen in the Latin Quarter. Well, that very night--"

Mr. Dallas looks round him triumphantly. He does not exactly smile, forwhat he is going to say is really rather dreadful, but he has the eager, pleased look which all good story-tellers have when they have come to thepoint of their story. 

"I don't believe that one man in a million would guess what happened!" Helooks round him again, and has time to note complacently that the son ofhis host, who has risen, and whose hands grip the back of the chair fromwhich he has risen, is staring, fascinated, across at him. 

"A very, very strange and terrible thing befell this young couple. Thatfirst night of their stay in Paris, between two and three the bridegroomdeveloped plague! Monsieur Beaucourt tells me that the poor fellow behavedwith the greatest presence of mind; although he cannot of course have knownwhat exactly was the matter with him, he gave orders that his wife was notto be disturbed, and that the hotel people were to send for a doctor atonce. Luckily there was a medical man living in the same street; he leapton the dreadful truth, sent for an ambulance, and within less than half anhour of the poor fellow's seizure he was whisked away to the nearest publichospital, where he died five hours later. "

Mr. Dallas waits a moment, he is a little disappointed that no one speaks, and he hurries on:--

"And now comes the point of my story! Monsieur Beaucourt assures me thatthe fact was kept absolutely secret. He told me that had it leaked out itmight have half emptied Paris. French people have a perfect terror of whatthey call 'la Peste. ' But not a whisper of the truth got about, and thatthough a considerable number of people had to know, including many of theofficials connected with the Prefecture of Police. The Prefect showed methe poor fellow's watch and bunch of seals, the only things, of course, that they were able to keep; he really spoke very nicely, very movinglyabout it--"

And then, at last, the speaker stops abruptly. He has seen his host's sonreel a little, sway as does a man who is drunk, and then fall heavily tothe ground. 

It is hours later. The sun has long set. Gerald opens his eyes; and then heshuts them again, for he wants to go on dreaming. He is vaguely aware thathe is lying in the magnificent Jacobean four-post bed which he had been fartoo miserable, too agitated to notice when his father had brought him upthe night before. But now the restful beauty of the spacious room, thefantastic old coloured maps lining the walls, affect him agreeably, soothehis tired mind and brain. 

During that dreamy moment of half-waking he has seen in the shadowed room, for the lights are heavily shaded, the figures of his father and of Daisy;he now hears his father's whisper:--"The doctor says he is only sufferingfrom shock, but that when he wakes he must be kept very quiet. "

And Daisy's clear, low voice, "Oh, yes, father. When he opens his eyesperhaps we'd better leave him with Nancy. "

Nancy? Then Nancy really is here, close to him, sitting on a low chair bythe side of the bed. And when he opened his eyes just now she really hadbent her dear head forward and laid her soft lips on his hand. It was nodream--no dream--

And then there comes over him an overwhelming rush of mingled feelings andemotions. He tries to remember what it was that had happened thisafternoon--he sees the active, restless figure of the Englishman dancingqueerly up and down as it had seemed to dance just before he, Gerald, fell, and he feels again the horrible wish to laugh which had seized him whenthat dancing figure had said something about Beaucourt having spoken"very nicely--"

"Curse Beaucourt! Such a fiend is only fit for the lowest depths of Hell. "

Again he opens his eyes. Did he say the ugly words aloud? He thinks not, hehopes not, for Daisy only takes their father's hand in hers and leads himfrom the room. 

"Nancy?" he says, trying to turn towards her. "Do we know the truth now? Ismy search at an end?"

"Yes, " she whispers. "We know the truth now--my dearest. Your search is atan end. "

And as she gets up and bends over him, he feels her tears dropping on hisface. 

THE END

BOOKS BY MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES

PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

THE LODGER net, $1. 25THE END OF HER HONEYMOON net, $1. 25STUDIES IN LOVE AND TERROR net, $1. 30MARY PECHELL net, $1. 30THE CHINK IN THE ARMOUR net, $1. 30JANE OGLANDER net, $1. 30