e spent most of his waking time at
work. On this particular day he had gone to his den immediately after
luncheon, and had grown so absorbed in his labours that the dinner-bell
had sounded unheard. He was aroused from his work by the apple-cheeked
maid, and was told that dinner was already served. He dashed upstairs
two steps at a time, laved his hands and face, and descended to the
dining-room. Annette was not there. He inquired for her, and learned
that she had gone out an hour or two before and had not yet returned.
This caused him no anxiety, for she had made some acquaintances in the
place, and had one or two houses at which she was accustomed to visit
But when the meal was over and there was still no sign of her, he began
to be vaguely inquiet, and, taking up his hat, he walked out into the
tranquil brightness of the summer evening, and called from house to
house to ask after her. But Madame Bulot had not seen her, nor had
Madame Gerard, nor had the doctor, nor had little Mademoiselle Coquelin,
the dressmaker. Madame Armstrong had been observed on the road which led
to the Bois de Falaise some four hours ago, and that was the latest news
of her. The vague inquiet began to deepen into serious misgiving. Paul
walked rapidly to the Terre de Falaise, scoured the broad carriage-drive
which had been cut through the wood, beat up one or two favourite little
haunts of Annette's, and found no trace of her. He returned to the
hotel, only to learn that she had not been seen. A terror of a thousand
imagined accidents took hold of him, and he flew to the gendarmerie with
intent to organize a search. But while he was discussing ways and means
with the Juge d'Instruction, who had been hastily sent for from next
door, a stable-keeper from the hotel ran up to inform him that Madame
had been found, that she had been evidently dreadfully frightened, and
was in hysterics. When he reached the hotel, breathless, he found a
group of startled people in the corridor, and from the bedroom he could
hear Annette's voice shrieking that they were dancing in the wood,
and that their bones were white. He pushed eagerly through the knot of
listeners, and made his way into the bedroom. The doctor was there, and
warned him away at once.

'You can do no good here,' he said; 'you will only distress yourself.'

'There is no danger?' he asked, panting after his homeward run.

'There is not the slightest atom of danger,' said the doctor.

CHAPT