When Browne heard the maid’s news, his heart sank like lead. He could scarcely believe his ill-fortune. Only a moment before he had been comforting himself with the thought that he would soon be standing face to face with Katherine, ready to ask her a question which should decide the happiness of his life. Now his world seemed suddenly to have turned as black as midnight. Why had she left England so suddenly? What had taken her away? Could it have been something in connection with that mysterious business of Madame Bernstein’s of which he had heard so much of late? Then another idea struck him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was leaving that had occasioned her unhappiness on the previous afternoon. The maid who had opened the door to him, and whose information had caused him such disappointment, was a typical specimen of the London boarding-house servant, and yet there was sufficient of the woman left in her to enable her to see that her news had proved a crushing blow to the man standing before her.

“Can you tell me at what hour they left?” Browne inquired. “I was hoping to have seen Miss Petrovitch this morning.”

“I can tell you what the time was exactly,” the girl replied. “It was on the stroke of nine when they got into the cab.”

“Are you quite certain upon that point?” he asked.

“Quite certain, sir,” she answered. “I know it was nine o’clock, because I had just carried in the first floor’s breakfast; and a precious noise, sir, he always makes if it is not on the table punctual to the minute. There were some letters for Madame Bernstein by the post, which the other girl took up to her bedroom. As soon as she read them she sent down for Mrs. Jimson and called for her bill. ‘I leave for Paris in an hour’s time, Mrs. Jimson,’ says she, sort of short-like, for I heard her myself; ‘so make me out my bill and let me have it quickly.’”

“And did Miss Petrovitch appear at all surprised or put out at having to leave London at such short notice?” Browne asked, not without a little trepidation.

“Well, sir, that was exactly what I was a-going to tell you,” the girl replied, dropping her voice a little, and glancing back over her shoulder into the house, as if she were afraid of being overheard. “She did seem precious put out about it; at least so the other girl says. Jane tells me she feels certain Miss Petrovitch had been crying, her eyes were that red, and when she went into the room she and madame were at it hammer and tongs.

“I suppose they left no message for any one?” Browne inquired, refusing to comment on what the girl had just told him.

“Not as I know of, sir,” the young woman replied. “But if you will just wait a minute I’ll go in and ask Mrs. Jimson. She will be sure to know.”

Browne contained his patience as best he could for some five or six minutes. Then the girl returned and shook her head.

“There’s no message of any sort, sir,” she said; “at least not as Mrs. Jimson knows of.”

“Thank you,” said Browne simply. “I am much obliged to you.”

As he said it he slipped half a sovereign into the girl’s hand. The bribe completed the effect the touch of romance, combined with his pleasing personality, to say nothing of his smart cab drawn up beside the pavement, had already produced. Not only would she have told him all she knew, but, had she dared, she would have gone so far as to have expressed her sympathy with him.

Browne was about to descend the steps, when another idea occurred to him, and he turned to the girl again.

“You do not happen to be aware of their address in Paris, I suppose?” he inquired. “I have a particular reason for asking the question.”

“Hush, sir!” she whispered. “If you really want to know it, I believe I can find out for you. Madame Bernstein wrote it down for Mrs. Jimson, so that she could send on any letters that came for her. I know where Mrs. Jimson put the piece of paper, and if you’ll just wait a minute longer, I’ll see if I can find it for you and copy it out. I won’t be a minute longer than I can help.”

Feeling very much as if he were being guilty of a dishonourable action, Browne allowed her to depart upon her errand. This time she was somewhat longer away, but when she returned she carried, concealed in her hand, a small slip of paper. He took it from her, and, once more thanking her for her kindness, returned to his cab.

“Home, Williams,” he cried to his coachman, “and as quickly as possible. I have no time to spare.”

As the vehicle sped along in the direction of the High Street, Browne unfolded and glanced at the paper the girl had given him. Upon it, written in a clumsy hand, was the address he wanted, and which he would have fought the world to obtain.

“Madame Bernstein,” so it ran, “35, Rue Jacquarie, Paris.”

“Very good,” said Browne to himself triumphantly. “Now I know where to find them. Let me see! They were to leave London in an hour from nine o’clock; that means that they started from Victoria and are travelling via Newhaven and Dieppe. Now, there’s a train from Charing Cross, via Dover and Calais, at eleven. If I can catch that I shall be in Paris an hour and a half after them.”

He consulted his watch anxiously, to find that he had barely an hour in which to pack his bag and to get to the station. However, if it could be done, he was determined to do it; accordingly he bade his man drive faster. Reaching Park Lane, he rang for his valet, and when that somewhat stolid individual put in an appearance, bade him pack a few necessaries and be ready to start for the Continent at once. Being a well-drilled servant, and accustomed, by long usage, to his master’s rapid flittings from place to place, the man offered no comment, but merely saying, “Very good, sir,” departed to carry out his instructions.

Two minutes to eleven found Browne standing upon the platform at Charing Cross Station. It was not until he was comfortably installed in the carriage and the train was rolling out of the station, that the full meaning of what he was doing struck him. Why was he leaving England? To follow this girl. And why? For one very good reason —because he loved her! But why should he have loved her, when, with his wealth, he could have married the daughter of almost any peer in England; when, had he so desired, he could have chosen his wife from among the most beautiful or most talented women in Europe? Katherine Petrovitch, attractive and charming as she was, was neither as beautiful, rich, or clever as a hundred women he had met. And yet she was the one in the world he desired for his wife.

So concerned was he about her that, when they reached Dover, his first thought was to examine the sea in order to convince himself that she had had a good crossing. He boarded the steamer, the lines were cast off, and presently the vessel’s head was pointing for the Continent. Little by little the English coast dropped behind them and the shores of France loomed larger. Never before had the coast struck him as being so beautiful. He entered the train at Calais with a fresh satisfaction as he remembered that every revolution of the wheels was bringing him closer to the woman he loved. The lights were lit in the cafés and upon the boulevards, when he reached Paris, and as he drove through the crowded streets in the direction of the hotel he usually affected the city seemed all glitter, gaiety, and life.

Familiar as he was with the city, it seemed altogether different to him to-night. The loungers in the courtyard of the hotel, the bustling waiters, the very chambermaids, served to remind him that, while in the flesh he was still the same John Grantham Browne, in the spirit he was an altogether separate and distinct individual from the man they had previously known. On reaching his own room he opened the window, leant out, and looked upon Paris by night. The voice of the great city spoke to him, and greeted him as with the sweetest music. Once more he was sharing the same city with Katherine Petrovitch, breathing the same air, and hearing the same language.

Shutting the window at last, he washed off the stains of travel, changed his attire, and descended to the dining-hall.

Having no desire to lose time, he resolved to institute inquiries at once about the Rue Jacquarie, and to seek, and if possible to obtain, an interview with Katherine before she could possibly depart from Paris again. How was he to know that Madame Bernstein’s plans might not necessitate another removal to Rome, Berlin, or St. Petersburg? — in which case he might very easily lose sight of her altogether. He had never trusted madame, and since her departure from England he was even less disposed to do so than before. There was something about her that he did not altogether appreciate. He had told himself that he did not like her the first day he had met her at Merok, and he was even more convinced of the fact now. What the link was between the two women he could not think, and he was almost afraid to attempt to solve the mystery.

Dinner at an end, he rose and went to his room to put on a cloak. In love though he was, he had still sufficient of his father’s prudence left to be careful of his health.

Descending to the courtyard once more, he called a fiacre, and, when the man had driven up, inquired whether he knew where the Rue Jacquarie was. The man looked at him with some show of surprise.

“Oui, m’sieu,” he replied, “I know the Rue Jacquarie, of course; but ——”

“Never mind any buts,” Browne replied, as he jumped into the cab. “I have business in the Rue Jacquarie, so drive me there at once.”

“To what number?” the man inquired, in a tone that implied that he was not over-anxious for the job.

“Never mind the number,” said Browne; “drive me to the corner and set me down there.”

The man whipped up his horse, and they started via the Rue Tronchet. Turning into the Rue St. Honoré, and thence into the Place de la Madeleine, they proceeded in the direction of Montmartre. For some time Browne endeavoured to keep tally of the route; eventually, however, he was obliged to relinquish the attempt in despair. From one street they passed into another, and to Browne it seemed that every one was alike. At last the driver stopped his horse.

“This is the Rue Jacquarie,” he said, pointing with his whip down a long and somewhat dingy thoroughfare.

Browne bade him wait for him, and then proceeded down the street on foot in search of No. 35. After the magnificent quarter of the city in which he had installed himself, the Rue Jacquarie seemed mean and contemptible in the extreme. The houses were small and dingy, and it was plain that they were occupied by people who were not the possessors of any conspicuous degree of wealth. He walked the whole length of the street in search of No. 35, and, not finding it, returned upon the other side. At last he discovered the house he wanted. He thereupon crossed the road, and, standing on the opposite pavement, regarded it steadfastly.

Lights shone from three of the windows, and Browne’s pulses beat more quickly as he reflected that it was just possible one of them might emanate from Katherine’s room.

It was now close upon ten o’clock, and if all had gone well with them the girl should now have been in Paris some three hours. It was extremely unlikely that, after such a journey, she would have gone out, so that he had every reason for feeling certain she must be in the house before him. In spite of the thin rain that was falling, he stood and watched the building for some minutes. Once a woman’s shadow passed across a blind upon the second floor, and Browne felt his heart leap as he saw it. A few moments later a man and a woman passed the concierge. They paused upon the doorstep to wish some one within “good-night”; then, descending the steps, they set off in the same direction in which Browne himself had come. Before doing so, however, they turned and looked up and down the street, as if they were afraid they might be observed. Seeing Browne watching the house, they hastened their steps, and presently disappeared down a side thoroughfare. For an ordinary observer this small event might have had little or no significance; but to Browne, in whose mind indefinable suspicions were already shaping themselves, it seemed more than a little disquieting. That they had noticed him, and that they were alarmed by the knowledge that he was watching the house, was as plain as the lights in the windows opposite. But why they should have been so frightened was what puzzled him. What was going on in the house, or rather what had they been doing that they should fear being overlooked? He asked himself these questions as he paced down the street in the direction of his cab. But he could not answer them to his satisfaction.

“Drive me to the Amphitryon Club,” he said, as he took his place in the vehicle once more; and then continued to himself, “I’d give something to understand what it all means.”