--what of him? The little one said he was
lost; that he had not been kind. Hugh gritted his teeth together, and
heard only the singing of his blood in his ears. Was the man dead, or
had he but disappeared? In any case, _she_ was here, alone in Monte
Carlo, with her child; poor, unhappy, working by day, crying by night.
He must see her, at once--at once.

Yet--what if it were not she, after all? If the name were a coincidence?
There might be other Evelyn Cliffords in the world. It must be that this
was another. His Evelyn had married a rich and titled Englishman. She
was Lady Clifford. The things that had happened to Rosemary's Angel
could not have happened to her. Still, he must know, and know quickly.

"Where do you live, little Rosemary?" he asked, grimly schooling his
voice, when he felt that he could trust himself to speak.

"The Hotel Pensior Beau Soleil, Rue Girasole, in the Condamine, Monte
Carlo," answered the child, as if she were repeating a lesson she had
been taught to rattle off by heart.

Lost as he was to most external things, Hugh roused himself to some
surprise at the name of the hotel.

"Why, that is where Mademoiselle de Lavalette and her mother live!" he
exclaimed.

"They're the ladies Angel lent the money to, because she was so sorry
for them," said Rosemary. "I've heard them talking about it with her,
and saying they can't pay it back. They're angry with her for asking,
but she had to, you see. When they go past us in the dining-room they
turn their backs."

Hugh's attention was arrested now.

"Do they dine?" he asked. "Every night?"

"Oh yes, always. Mademoiselle has lovely dresses. She is pretty, but the
Comtesse is such an ugly old lady; like Red Riding Hood's grandmother, I
think. I'm afraid of her. Jane says _her_ Madame and Monsieur don't
believe she's really a Comtesse. I had to knock at her door with a
letter from Angel to-day, for Angel doesn't know I'm afraid. I couldn't
help being glad Madame wouldn't let me in, for it seemed as if she might
eat me up. I knocked and knocked, and when I was going away, I saw
Mademoiselle coming in, in a pink dress with a rosy hat."

"I think she'll pay your mother back to-morrow," said Hugh, remembering
the fatness of the pink bag.

"She didn't say she would. She was so cross with me that she called me a
_petit bete_, and snatched the letter out of my hand."

At this, Hugh's face grew suddenly hot and red, and he muttered
something under hi