."

It was light with the roseate, warm light of a late summer's dawn as we
reached the hotel. Paris slept, and the stillness of her streets
greeted the life-giving day, while the grey mist floated away before
the scattered sunbeams, and the houses stood clear-cut in the finer
air. I was hungry for sleep, and too tired to think more of the strange
dream-like scene I had witnessed; but Hall followed me to my bedroom,
and had yet a word to say.

"Before we part--we may not meet again for some time, for I leave Paris
in a couple of hours--I want to ask you to do me yet one more service.
Your yacht is at Calais, I believe--will you go aboard this morning and
take her round to Plymouth? There ask for news of the American's
yacht--he has only hired her, and she is called _La France_. News of
the yacht will be news of me, and I shall be glad to think that someone
is at my back in this big risk. If you should not hear of me, wait a
month; but if you get definite proof of my death, break the seal of the
papers you hold and read--but I don't think it will come to that."

So saying, he left me with a hearty handshake. Poor fellow, I did not
know then that I should break the seal of his papers within three days.

CHAPTER III.

"FOUR-EYES" DELIVERS A MESSAGE.

A warming glare of the fuller sun upon my eyes, the cracking of whips,
the shouting of fierce-lunged coachmen, the hum of moving morning life
in the city, stirred me from a deep sleep as the clocks struck ten. I
sat up in bed, uncertain in the effort of wit-gathering if night had
not given me a dream rather than an experience, a chance play of the
brain's imagining, and not a living knowledge of true scenes and
strange men. For in this mood does nature often play with us, tricking
us to fine thoughts as we lie dreaming, or creating such shows of life
as we slumber, that in our first moments of wakefulness we do not
detect the cheat or reckon with the phantoms. I knew not for some
while, as I lay back listening to the hum of busy Paris, if the Perfect
Fool had or had not told me anything, if we had gone together to a
house near the Rue Joubert, or if we had remained in the hotel, if he
had begged of me some favour, or if I had dreamed it. All was but a
confused mind-picture, changing as a kaleidoscope, blurred, shadowy. It
might have remained so long, had I not, looking about the room, become
aware that a letter, neatly folded, lay on the small table at my
bedsid