Again the mid-day sun was gilding the canopy of his couch when Paul
awoke. He sprang up and dressed hurriedly. That day he must discover
who the lady was.
Renewed inquiries of Monsieur Jacques yielded no further information.
Rose-red lips and coils of raven hair no longer made on the _maître
d'hôtel_ the same impression as in the golden days when the band
played dreamy waltzes and dashing gentlemen leaned caressingly over
dazzling shoulders.
Of the man he had felled, Paul spoke never a word. Apparently he had
vanished as he had come--unknown.
"Truly, Sir Paul, there has been no lady here to answer your
description. But stop! A Russian lady perhaps, you say? _Il est
possible._" Monsieur Jacques laid a searching finger on his
speculative brow. "Mademoiselle Vseslavitch, _peut-être_. Yes--tall,
surely,--a brunette, too, like most of those Russians. She left this
morning, quite early."
Paul's heart leaped, only to stop again at the last sentence.
"Left? Where did she go, _mon ami_?" He and Monsieur Jacques were good
friends, and Paul knew that his interest, though perhaps unaccountable
to the old inn-keeper, was still in safe hands.
"That I do not know. But we shall see what we shall see. One moment,
Monsieur."
Calling a porter, the _maître d'hotel_ gesticulated with him for a
moment. Then he returned to where Paul waited impatiently.
"Emil here says that he purchased bookings to Langres for the lady,"
he said.
Langres! Isabella and London were a million miles from Langres at that
instant! The memory of that kiss alone remained.
Paul's mind was made up. He would start for Langres that very day. He
hurried to his rooms, where Baxter was soon packing his boxes. And
then Paul's eye fell on the table, on the picture of Isabella that he
had brought with him. She had given him an excellent likeness, in a
leather case, the day he came away. Her frank eyes seemed to smile at
him amusedly.
Paul pulled himself together.
"I am mad!" he told himself--"to be carried away by a momentary
impulse, to forget all for a fancied resemblance!... Paris! Baxter!"
he said curtly, turning to his valet.
And when Paul reached the station it was with the firmest of
resolutions to hurry home, stopping only one night in Paris to break
the tiresome journey.
"_En voiture!_" the guards sang out, and Paul climbed into his
carriage, once more the staid M. P. he thought--But was he? Could he
ever be again?
* * * * *
Toward Paris, then, the fast mail bore him rapidly; and at the same
time toward Langres. When they reached Bâle, Baxter telegraphed to the
_Hôtel du Rhin_ in Paris for a suite. At Belfort Paul directed him to
send another message cancelling the reservation. And--alas for Paul's
good resolutions!--at the station of Langres-Marne, a mile from the
old cathedral town itself, he left the train, taking only a big
Gladstone bag with him, and sent Baxter on alone to Paris, to wait
until he should arrive.
Another short journey remained, so in company with the inevitable
soldier, priest, and old lady with a huge umbrella, Paul took a seat
in one of the open cars of the little rack-and-pinion railway that
runs up the steep hill through the apple orchards to the old cathedral
city. In a few minutes the train stopped at a miniature station.
It had begun to rain, and Paul was conscious that he was an object of
interest as he stood on the steps of the station looking about him in
search of a _fiacre_.
No vehicle was in sight, so he set himself to tramp up the hill to the
_Hôtel de l'Europe_, at which he had stayed long years before, and of
which he still entertained a lively recollection of its cleanness and
its quaintness.
The _hôtel_ slept, and Verdayne heard the bell pealing through the
silent house as he stood shivering and waiting on the doorstep.
Presently he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn and a
shock-headed night porter thrust his face out into the damp evening
air.
The sight of Sir Paul's tall figure drew his immediate attention.
"What does Monsieur require?" he asked in accents which were at once
civil and surprised.
"Let me in," said Verdayne, "and I will do my best to explain."
The man led the way to a delightfully large and airy room, half
_salon_, half _chambre à coucher_, where Paul was glad to remove the
stains of travel.
First he took the precaution of drawing a couple of half-crowns from
his pocket and slipping them into the man's hand.
"You need not be alarmed at my appearance," he said. "I am not a
fugitive from justice. I am merely an English gentleman who has lost
his friends and who is in search of them.
"Tell me if you have staying in this hotel a tall young lady with dark
hair and brilliant eyes? It is possible that she is travelling
_incognito_, but if she has given her right name it will be
Mademoiselle Vseslavitch."
The man scratched his head and looked worried.
"I would help Monsieur if I could," he said, "but I can only assure
him that there is no lady staying in this hotel at all. Alas! the
season is very bad, and we have few visitors."
That this dark-haired lady was not at the _Hôtel de l'Europe_ did not
disconcert Verdayne very much. He had foreseen that she was hardly
likely to stay in the hotel with which English tourists would be
acquainted.
"It is many years," he said to the man, "since I stayed here. In fact,
I have practically no recollection of Langres except of this hotel and
the cathedral. I should therefore be very much obliged if you could
furnish me with a complete list of all the other hotels."
"Why now," said the man, "that is an exceedingly simple affair." And
he rattled off a list.
Paul repeated them after him.
"And you think," he asked, "that this is a complete list?"
"Quite complete, I should say," said the man, "for Monsieur's purpose.
"Permit me to help Monsieur," he went on. "Monsieur will pardon me,
but possibly this may be some romance."
He shrugged his shoulders, but with such an air of civility and
respect that Verdayne could not quarrel with him.
"At any rate, it is not my business to inquire. For the time it is
merely my end to serve Monsieur well. Be seated for a moment while I
make coffee and bring rolls and butter. It will fortify Monsieur
against the damp air."
Laughing a little, Paul suffered the man to bustle about. The fellow
was deft indeed, and soon Verdayne was glad that he had listened to
his counsel.
Midnight drew near and the porter turned the lights out, but Paul sat
until cockcrow, smoking and pondering on the strange paths into which
one's feet are sometimes led.
* * * * *
Shortly after eight, the man, who had been busy cleaning boots,
returned and made a gesture towards the sunlight, which was streaming
into the room.
"If Monsieur is in haste," he said, "I will not seek to detain him. By
this time the other hotels will be open. If Monsieur's mission is
urgent he should continue his search."
His air was so friendly and so charming that Paul resorted to the only
expression of appreciation of which he could conceive. He gave the man
another ten francs, and pledged him to silence. None the less, he had
little faith that the man would keep his tongue still. A Frenchman
must talk.
After a light breakfast Paul went out into the fresh morning air and
began his search. In turn he visited the _Hôtel de la Poste_, _le
Grand_, _de la Cloche_, and the rest of them, wandering around the
cobbled streets of the sleepy village, and strolling through the
market-place, gay with the green and red and russet of its vegetables,
the blue and crimson of the umbrellas over the stalls. Then, in the
unclouded sunshine, he walked around the ancient ramparts, from which
point of vantage he looked down upon wide stretches of sunlit country,
dotted here and there with vineyards.
It cost him a pretty sum to purchase the confidence of half-suspicious
porters, but by the time he had worked through the list with which the
friendly servitor had provided him he had come to the conclusion that
Mademoiselle Vseslavitch was, of a certainty, not in one of these
hostelries.
Was she still in Langres? The doubt troubled Paul greatly.
All the time, as he walked on through the narrow streets, Paul's eyes
sought the object of his quest in vain. Apparently he was the only
foreigner in the town. It was nearly twelve as he turned into the
_Promenade de la Blanche Fontaine_, a fine wide avenue of chestnut
trees which recalled to Paul the Broad Walk at Oxford, and being the
only pedestrian abroad at that hour, he said a few swear-words to
himself by way of consolation.
Clearly, this search for the lady might prove a case for Sherlock
Holmes, while Paul's own detective ability, he admitted, was more of
the Dr. Watson order.