When Browne heard the maid's news, his heart sank like lead. He could
scarcely believe his ill-fortune. Only a moment before he had been
comforting himself with the thought that he would soon be standing face
to face with Katherine, ready to ask her a question which should decide
the happiness of his life. Now his world seemed suddenly to have
turned as black as midnight. Why had she left England so suddenly?
What had taken her away? Could it have been something in connection
with that mysterious business of Madame Bernstein's of which he had
heard so much of late? Then another idea struck him. Perhaps it was
the knowledge that she was leaving that had occasioned her unhappiness
on the previous afternoon. The maid who had opened the door to him,
and whose information had caused him such disappointment, was a typical
specimen of the London boarding-house servant, and yet there was
sufficient of the woman left in her to enable her to see that her news
had proved a crushing blow to the man standing before her.
"Can you tell me at what hour they left?" Browne inquired. "I was
hoping to have seen Miss Petrovitch this morning."
"I can tell you what the time was exactly," the girl replied. "It was
on the stroke of nine when they got into the cab."
"Are you quite certain upon that point?" he asked.
"Quite certain, sir," she answered. "I know it was nine o'clock,
because I had just carried in the first floor's breakfast; and a
precious noise, sir, he always makes if it is not on the table punctual
to the minute. There were some letters for Madame Bernstein by the
post, which the other girl took up to her bedroom. As soon as she read
them she sent down for Mrs. Jimson and called for her bill. 'I leave
for Paris in an hour's time, Mrs. Jimson,' says she, sort of
short-like, for I heard her myself; 'so make me out my bill and let me
have it quickly.'"
"And did Miss Petrovitch appear at all surprised or put out at having
to leave London at such short notice?" Browne asked, not without a
little trepidation.
"Well, sir, that was exactly what I was a-going to tell you," the girl
replied, dropping her voice a little, and glancing back over her
shoulder into the house, as if she were afraid of being overheard.
"She did seem precious put out about it; at least so the other girl
says. Jane tells me she feels certain Miss Petrovitch had been crying,
her eyes were that red, and when she went into the room she and madame
were at it hammer and tongs.
"I suppose they left no message for any one?" Browne inquired, refusing
to comment on what the girl had just told him.
"Not as I know of, sir," the young woman replied. "But if you will
just wait a minute I'll go in and ask Mrs. Jimson. She will be sure to
know."
Browne contained his patience as best he could for some five or six
minutes. Then the girl returned and shook her head.
"There's no message of any sort, sir," she said; "at least not as Mrs.
Jimson knows of."
"Thank you," said Browne simply. "I am much obliged to you."
As he said it he slipped half a sovereign into the girl's hand. The
bribe completed the effect the touch of romance, combined with his
pleasing personality, to say nothing of his smart cab drawn up beside
the pavement, had already produced. Not only would she have told him
all she knew, but, had she dared, she would have gone so far as to have
expressed her sympathy with him.
Browne was about to descend the steps, when another idea occurred to
him, and he turned to the girl again.
"You do not happen to be aware of their address in Paris, I suppose?"
he inquired. "I have a particular reason for asking the question."
"Hush, sir!" she whispered. "If you really want to know it, I believe
I can find out for you. Madame Bernstein wrote it down for Mrs.
Jimson, so that she could send on any letters that came for her. I
know where Mrs. Jimson put the piece of paper, and if you'll just wait
a minute longer, I'll see if I can find it for you and copy it out. I
won't be a minute longer than I can help."
Feeling very much as if he were being guilty of a dishonourable action,
Browne allowed her to depart upon her errand. This time she was
somewhat longer away, but when she returned she carried, concealed in
her hand, a small slip of paper. He took it from her, and, once more
thanking her for her kindness, returned to his cab.
"Home, Williams," he cried to his coachman, "and as quickly as
possible. I have no time to spare."
As the vehicle sped along in the direction of the High Street, Browne
unfolded and glanced at the paper the girl had given him. Upon it,
written in a clumsy hand, was the address he wanted, and which he would
have fought the world to obtain.
"Madame Bernstein," so it ran, "35, Rue Jacquarie, Paris."
"Very good," said Browne to himself triumphantly. "Now I know where to
find them. Let me see! They were to leave London in an hour from nine
o'clock; that means that they started from Victoria and are travelling
_via_ Newhaven and Dieppe. Now, there's a train from Charing Cross,
_via_ Dover and Calais, at eleven. If I can catch that I shall be in
Paris an hour and a half after them."
He consulted his watch anxiously, to find that he had barely an hour in
which to pack his bag and to get to the station. However, if it could
be done, he was determined to do it; accordingly he bade his man drive
faster. Reaching Park Lane, he rang for his valet, and when that
somewhat stolid individual put in an appearance, bade him pack a few
necessaries and be ready to start for the Continent at once. Being a
well-drilled servant, and accustomed, by long usage, to his master's
rapid flittings from place to place, the man offered no comment, but
merely saying, "Very good, sir," departed to carry out his instructions.
Two minutes to eleven found Browne standing upon the platform at
Charing Cross Station. It was not until he was comfortably installed
in the carriage and the train was rolling out of the station, that the
full meaning of what he was doing struck him. Why was he leaving
England? To follow this girl. And why? For one very good
reason--_because he loved her_! But why _should_ he have loved her,
when, with his wealth, he could have married the daughter of almost any
peer in England; when, had he so desired, he could have chosen his wife
from among the most beautiful or most talented women in Europe?
Katherine Petrovitch, attractive and charming as she was, was neither
as beautiful, rich, or clever as a hundred women he had met. And yet
she was the one in the world he desired for his wife.
So concerned was he about her that, when they reached Dover, his first
thought was to examine the sea in order to convince himself that she
had had a good crossing. He boarded the steamer, the lines were cast
off, and presently the vessel's head was pointing for the Continent.
Little by little the English coast dropped behind them and the shores
of France loomed larger. Never before had the coast struck him as
being so beautiful. He entered the train at Calais with a fresh
satisfaction as he remembered that every revolution of the wheels was
bringing him closer to the woman he loved. The lights were lit in the
cafes and upon the boulevards, when he reached Paris, and as he drove
through the crowded streets in the direction of the hotel he usually
affected the city seemed all glitter, gaiety, and life.
Familiar as he was with the city, it seemed altogether different to him
to-night. The loungers in the courtyard of the hotel, the bustling
waiters, the very chambermaids, served to remind him that, while in the
flesh he was still the same John Grantham Browne, in the spirit he was
an altogether separate and distinct individual from the man they had
previously known. On reaching his own room he opened the window, leant
out, and looked upon Paris by night. The voice of the great city spoke
to him, and greeted him as with the sweetest music. Once more he was
sharing the same city with Katherine Petrovitch, breathing the same
air, and hearing the same language.
Shutting the window at last, he washed off the stains of travel,
changed his attire, and descended to the dining-hall.
Having no desire to lose time, he resolved to institute inquiries at
once about the Rue Jacquarie, and to seek, and if possible to obtain,
an interview with Katherine before she could possibly depart from Paris
again. How was he to know that Madame Bernstein's plans might not
necessitate another removal to Rome, Berlin, or St. Petersburg?--in
which case he might very easily lose sight of her altogether. He had
never trusted madame, and since her departure from England he was even
less disposed to do so than before. There was something about her that
he did not altogether appreciate. He had told himself that he did not
like her the first day he had met her at Merok, and he was even more
convinced of the fact now. What the link was between the two women he
could not think, and he was almost afraid to attempt to solve the
mystery.
Dinner at an end, he rose and went to his room to put on a cloak. In
love though he was, he had still sufficient of his father's prudence
left to be careful of his health.
Descending to the courtyard once more, he called a fiacre, and, when
the man had driven up, inquired whether he knew where the Rue Jacquarie
was. The man looked at him with some show of surprise.
"Oui, m'sieu," he replied, "I know the Rue Jacquarie, of course;
but----"
"Never mind any buts," Browne replied, as he jumped into the cab. "I
have business in the Rue Jacquarie, so drive me there at once."
"To what number?" the man inquired, in a tone that implied that he was
not over-anxious for the job.
"Never mind the number," said Browne; "drive me to the corner and set
me down there."
The man whipped up his horse, and they started _via_ the Rue Tronchet.
Turning into the Rue St. Honore, and thence into the Place de la
Madeleine, they proceeded in the direction of Montmartre. For some
time Browne endeavoured to keep tally of the route; eventually,
however, he was obliged to relinquish the attempt in despair. From one
street they passed into another, and to Browne it seemed that every one
was alike. At last the driver stopped his horse.
"This is the Rue Jacquarie," he said, pointing with his whip down a
long and somewhat dingy thoroughfare.
Browne bade him wait for him, and then proceeded down the street on
foot in search of No. 35. After the magnificent quarter of the city in
which he had installed himself, the Rue Jacquarie seemed mean and
contemptible in the extreme. The houses were small and dingy, and it
was plain that they were occupied by people who were not the possessors
of any conspicuous degree of wealth. He walked the whole length of the
street in search of No. 35, and, not finding it, returned upon the
other side. At last he discovered the house he wanted. He thereupon
crossed the road, and, standing on the opposite pavement, regarded it
steadfastly.
Lights shone from three of the windows, and Browne's pulses beat more
quickly as he reflected that it was just possible one of them might
emanate from Katherine's room.
It was now close upon ten o'clock, and if all had gone well with them
the girl should now have been in Paris some three hours. It was
extremely unlikely that, after such a journey, she would have gone out,
so that he had every reason for feeling certain she must be in the
house before him. In spite of the thin rain that was falling, he stood
and watched the building for some minutes. Once a woman's shadow
passed across a blind upon the second floor, and Browne felt his heart
leap as he saw it. A few moments later a man and a woman passed the
concierge. They paused upon the doorstep to wish some one within
"good-night"; then, descending the steps, they set off in the same
direction in which Browne himself had come. Before doing so, however,
they turned and looked up and down the street, as if they were afraid
they might be observed. Seeing Browne watching the house, they
hastened their steps, and presently disappeared down a side
thoroughfare. For an ordinary observer this small event might have had
little or no significance; but to Browne, in whose mind indefinable
suspicions were already shaping themselves, it seemed more than a
little disquieting. That they had noticed him, and that they were
alarmed by the knowledge that he was watching the house, was as plain
as the lights in the windows opposite. But why they should have been
so frightened was what puzzled him. What was going on in the house, or
rather what had they been doing that they should fear being overlooked?
He asked himself these questions as he paced down the street in the
direction of his cab. But he could not answer them to his satisfaction.
"Drive me to the Amphitryon Club," he said, as he took his place in the
vehicle once more; and then continued to himself, "I'd give something
to understand what it all means."