passed in my frantic efforts to discover the whereabouts
of the poor young Hungarian. How my heart bled for the gentle boy,
perhaps languishing in an Austrian dungeon and calling on the good
Englishman to rescue him. I lived a year in that week. At last I
resolved to telegraph to M. Danneris. "Jules is lost. For God's sake,
come at once," flashed along the wires. The answer was equally terse.
The operator at Brussels replied, "Danneris gone. Left no address."

Was ever anything so unfortunate? Ah, yes, he did talk of visiting
England, and that was the reason he could not himself escort Jules
home.

Then I knew that I must brace my nerves to the terrible effort of
telling that poor father that his child was lost; that I, by my cursed
carelessness, had been the destroyer of his peace.

"Your son has mysteriously disappeared from my charge. Hasten here."

The answer was more perplexing than the one from Brussels: "Baron von
Dressdorf not known--no such place as Kioske."

Heavens! Was I in a dream?

For three weeks I continued my search, wandering about in a haggard,
broken manner, dreading every day to be stricken with brain fever. I
could not sleep for thinking of the poor lad, whose big, pleading eyes
seemed to look up into mine from every side. He haunted me.

One day I was watching the crowd pass the corner of the Thun Strasse,
when my hand was clasped, and a cheery voice rang in my ear:

"Mortimer, old fellow, by all that's glorious! Who would ever have
thought of meeting you here?"

It was Harvey Lawson, my old college chum.

"But you are sick, man. You look clean out of condition. Come up into
my den--mind those stairs--here you are--take that arm-chair. You see
I'm 'own correspondent' to the 'Daily Growler.' There's a pipe. Will
you have beer or wine? And, now, what have you been doing with
yourself?"

I told him all, and my story certainly awakened much interest in him.

"What was the date of your leaving Brussels?"

"Wednesday, September 17."

"Just a month ago. Hand me that file of papers at your elbow."

He selected one, glanced at it a moment. "Ah, yes, here it is."

"What?" I cried eagerly, the blood flying to my face.

"What was the name of the advocate?" he persisted with all the gravity
of a judge.

"Auguste Danneris."

"And his office, 170 Rue des Allumettes?"

"Yes, yes!"

"The _pension_ in the Porte de Schaerbeck?"

"Yes."

"The youth--black eyes, black hair, high forehead