, before her departure, one little instant of speech."

But the old fellow's faded blue eyes were gazing past me, hopelessly
sad, supremely mournful. What the deuce ailed him? I wondered angrily.
The thing was almost weird. Of a sudden, with irritation, yet with
dread, too, I felt myself on the threshold of a house of tragedy. The
man might, from the look of him, have been watching some loved young
master's bier.

"Mademoiselle regrets greatly," he intoned, "but she may not receive.
Mademoiselle sends this letter to monsieur that he may understand." He
passed me, through the locked grille, a slender missive; then he saluted
me once more and, still staring before him with that fixed, uncanny
look, withdrew.

CHAPTER XII

THE GRAY CAR

I was divided between exasperation and pity. The old fellow was in a
bad way; I felt sorry for him. Dunny had an ancient butler, a household
institution, who had presided over our destinies since my childhood and
would, I fancied, look something like this if he should hear that I was
dead. But in heaven's name, what was wrong here, and was nothing in the
world clear and aboveboard any longer? On the chance that the letter
might enlighten me I tore open the envelope and read with mixed feelings
the following note:

DEAR Mr. BAYNE:

The news that I found waiting for me was not good, as I had hoped. It
was bad, very bad--as bad as news can be. I must leave Paris at once,
and I can see no one, talk to no one, before I go. Please believe that
I am sorry, and that I shall never forget the kindness you showed me on
the ship.

Sincerely yours,

ESME FALCONER.

That was all. Well, the episode was ended--ended, moreover, with a good
deal of cavalierness. She had treated me like a meddlesome, pertinacious
idiot who had insisted on calling and had to be taught his place. This
was a Christian country where the formalities of life prevailed; I could
not--unless escorted and countenanced by gendarmes--seize upon a club
and batter down that grille.

I was resentful, wrathful, in the very deuce of a humor. Black gloom
settled over me. I admitted that Van Blarcom had been right. I recalled
the girl's vague explanations as we sat over our dinner; her denials,
unbolstered save by my willingness to accept them; all the chain of
incriminating circumstances that I had pondered over in the cab. Her
charm and the mystery that enveloped her had thrilled and stirred me;
she had seen it. To gai