"From Barmouth, Folkestone, to Lady Barmouth, 999 Portland Place,
London.
"No news as yet."
This was the first sent during the chase.
"From Barmouth, Beurice's, Paris, to Lady Barmouth, 999 Portland
Place, London.
"No news as yet."
Fresh messages were despatched at intervals of twelve hours, and in
addition Tom sent long letters to "My dearest Tryphie."
But all the same he was in a state of feverish excitement, while Lord
Barmouth was reduced to imbecile helplessness, but ready to obey his son
to the very letter, and trotting about after him through Paris like a
faithful dog. They had been most unfortunate in their quest: they had
succeeded in tracing the fugitives to Paris, and there they had been at
fault. Twenty times over Viscount Diphoos had declared that they must
have gone on somewhere; but the police said no, it was impossible. And
so they went on wearily searching Paris, until his lordship declared his
heel to be so sore that he could go no farther.
"They must have left Paris," vowed Viscount Diphoos in one of the
bureaux.
"But, monsieur, it is not possible. Our cordon of spies is too perfect.
No, my faith, they are still here. Have patience, monsieur, and you
shall see."
So the chief at each bureau; and so the days passed on, till the young
man felt almost maddened and rabid with despair. These were the
descriptions--"Young lady, fair, brown hair, blue eyes, pale, rather
thin face, tall and graceful; her companion, a tall, swarthy Italian,
with black curly hair and beard." But descriptions were all in vain,
and when, regularly fagged out, Viscount Diphoos sat at his hotel,
smoking his cigar, he would let it go out, and then heedless sit on,
nibbling and gnawing at the end till he had bitten it to pieces, and
still no ideas came.
"I'll shoot the scoundrel, that I will," he muttered aloud one evening.
"No, don't do that, Tom," said Lord Barmouth, feebly. "But don't you
think we had better go home?"
"No," said Tom, snappishly; "I don't, sir. Let's see what to-morrow
brings forth."
"Letters for messieurs," said a waiter, handing some correspondence from
London; but there was no news worthy of note.
"Here, stop a minute, _garcon_," said Tom, drawing a note and his
sister's photograph from his pocket-book. "Look here, this is an
English five-pound note."
"Oh, yais, monsieur, I know--_billet de banc_?"
"And this is the carte of a lady we wish to find in Paris, you
understand?"
The man nodded his closely cropped head, smiled, and, after a long look
at the carte, left the room.
"You seem to pin a good deal of faith to five-pound notes, Tom," said
Lord Barmouth.
"Yes," said his son, shortly. "Like 'em here."
The next day he sent for the waiter, but was informed that the man had
gone out for a holiday.
"I thought so," said Tom, enthusiastically, as soon as they were alone.
"That fellow will go and see all the waiters he knows at the different
hotels, and find out what we want."
Viscount Diphoos was quite right. About ten o'clock that evening the
waiter entered, and beckoned to them, mysteriously--
"Alaright," he said, "ze leddee is trouvee. I have ze fiacre at ze
door."
Tom leaped from his chair, and was going alone, but Lord Barmouth
persisted in accompanying him, and together they were driven to a quiet
hotel in the Rue de l'Arcade, near the Madeleine.
"You think you have found the lady?" queried Tom.
"Oh, yais m'sieu; and ze milord vis she."
"Bravo!" cried Tom, "a big black-bearded, Italian scoundrel!"
"Scoundrail, vot is you call scoundrail, sare?"
"There, there, never mind," said Viscount Diphoos--"a big, black-bearded
Italian!"
The waiter shrugged his shoulders.
"Zere is no beard, m'sieu, and ye zhentlemans is not black. He is vite;
oh, oui, yais, he is vite."
"Another disappointment," growled Tom.
"M'sieu say, ze _billet de banc_ if I find ze lady. I not know noting
at all of the black shentailman."
They were already in the hall, where they were encountered by one of the
_garcons_ of the establishment, whose scruples about introducing them to
the private rooms of the gentleman and lady staying there were hushed
with a sovereign.
"Pray take care, my dear boy," said Lord Barmouth; "don't be violent."
"We must get her away, father, at any cost," said Viscount Diphoos,
sternly. "What I want you to do is this--take charge of Maude, and get
her to our hotel. Never mind me. I shall have the police to back me if
the Italian scoundrel proves nasty."
"But mind that he has no knife, my dear boy. Foreigners are dangerous."
"If he attempts such a thing, dad, I'll shoot him like a dog," exclaimed
the young man, hotly.
And then the door was thrown open, and they entered.
The room was empty, and upon the proprietor being consulted, it was
announced that the gentleman and lady had left that evening by the Lyons
mail.
Telegraph communication failed.