o calculate the number
of days which that course of action would necessitate, and then
suddenly, as he saw himself once more on Fifth Avenue, he bethought him
of Alphabet Jones. What man was there that commanded larger sources of
social information than he? He would cable to him at once, and on the
morrow he would have the address.

The morrow dawned, and succeeding morrows--a week went by, and still no
word from Jones. A second week passed, and when a third was drawing to a
close and Tristrem, outwearied and enervated, had secured a berth on a
returning steamer, at last the answer came--an answer in four
words--"_Brown Shipley, Founders' Court_." That was all, but to
Tristrem, in his over-wrought condition, they were as barbs of flame.
"My own bankers!" he cried; "oh, thrice triple fool! why did I not think
of them before?" He was so annoyed at his stupidity that on his way to
the city his irritation counterbalanced the satisfaction which the
message brought. "Three whole weeks have I waited," he kept telling
himself--"three whole weeks! H'm! Jones might better have written. No, I
might better have shown some common-sense. Three whole weeks!"

He was out of the cab before it had fairly stopped, and breathless when
he reached the desk of the clerk whose duty it was to receive and
forward the letters of those who banked with the house.

"I want Mrs. Raritan's address," he said--"Mrs. R. F. Raritan, please."

The clerk fumbled a moment over some papers. "Care of Munroe, Rue
Scribe," he answered.

"Thank God!" Tristrem exclaimed; "and thank you. Send my letters there
also."

That evening he started for Paris, and the next morning he was asking in
the Rue Scribe the same question which he had asked the previous
afternoon in Founders' Court. There he learned that Mrs. Raritan had
sent word, the day before, that all letters should be held for her until
further notice. She had been stopping with her daughter at the Hotel du
Rhin, but whether or not she was still there the clerk did not know. The
Rue Scribe is not far from the Place Vendome, in which the Hotel du Rhin
is situated, and it took Tristrem a little less than five minutes to get
there. The concierge was lounging in her cubby-hole.

"Madame Raritan?" Tristrem began.

"_Partie, m'sieu, partie d'puis hier--_"

And then from Tristrem new questions came thick and fast. The concierge,
encouraged by what is known as a white piece, and of which the value is
five f