IT was about five o’clock on Saturday afternoon. The funeral was over. The unfortunate young Irish gentleman was now lying in the cemetery of Auteuil in a grave purchased in perpetuity. His name, age, and rank were duly inscribed in the registers, and the cause of his death was vouched for by the English physician who had attended him at the request of his family. He was accompanied, in going through the formalities, by the respectable woman who had nursed the sick man during his last seizure. Everything was perfectly in order. The physician was the only mourner at the funeral. No one was curious about the little procession. A funeral, more or less, excites no attention.

The funeral completed, the doctor gave orders for a single monument to be put in memory of Lord Harry Norland, thus prematurely cut off. He then returned to the cottage, paid and dismissed the nurse, taking her address in case he should find an opportunity, as he hoped, to recommend her among his numerous and distinguished clientele, and proceeded to occupy himself in setting everything in order before giving over the key to the landlord. First of all he removed the medicine bottles from the cupboard with great care, leaving nothing. Most of the bottles he threw outside into the dust-hole; one or two he placed in a fire which he made for the purpose in the kitchen: they were shortly reduced to two or three lumps of molten glass. These contained, no doubt, the mysteries and secrets of Science. Then he went into every room and searched in every possible place for any letters or papers which might have been left about. Letters left about are always indiscreet, and the consequences of an indiscretion may be far-reaching and incalculable. Satisfied at last that the place was perfectly cleared, he sat down in the salon and continued his business correspondence with the noble family and the solicitors. Thus engaged, he heard footsteps outside, footsteps on the gravel, footsteps on the doorstop. He got up, not without the slightest show of nervousness, and opened the door. Lord Harry was right. There stood the woman who had been his first nurse — the woman who overheard and watched — the woman who suspected. The suspicion and the intention of watching were legible in her eyes still. She had come back to renew her watch.

In her hand she carried her box, which she had lugged along from the place where the omnibus had deposited her. She made as if she were stepping in; but the big form of the doctor barred the way.

“Oh!” he said carelessly, “it is you. Who told you to come back?”

“Is my mistress at home?”

“No; she is not.” He made no movement to let her pass.

“I will come in, please, and wait for her.”

He still stood in the way.

“What time will she return?”

“Have you heard from her?”

“No.”

“Did she leave orders that you were to follow her?”

“No; none that I received. I thought —”

“Servants should never think. They should obey.”

“I know my duty, Dr. Vimpany, without learning it from you. Will you let me pass?”

He withdrew, and she entered.

“Come in, by all means,” he said, “if you desire my society for a short time. But you will not find your mistress here.”

“Not here! Where is she, then?”

“Had you waited in London for a day or two you would, I dare say, have been informed. As it is, you have had your journey for nothing.”

“Has she not been here?”

“She has not been here.”

“Dr. Vimpany,” said the woman, driven to desperation, “I don’t believe you! I am certain she has been here. What have you done with her?”

“Don’t you believe me? That is sad, indeed. But one cannot always help these wanderings. You do not believe me? Melancholy, truly!”

“You may mock as much as you like. Where is she?”

“Where, indeed?”

“She left London to join his lordship. Where is he?

“I do not know. He who would answer that question would be a wise man indeed.”

“Can I see him?”

“Certainly not. He has gone away. On a long journey. By himself.”

“Then I shall wait for him. Here!” she added with decision. “In this house!”

“By all means.”

She hesitated. There was an easy look about the doctor which she did not like.

“I believe,” she said, “that my mistress is in the house. She must be in the house. What are you going to do with her? I believe you have put her somewhere.”

“Indeed!”

“You would do anything! I will go to the police.”

“If you please.”

“Oh! doctor, tell me where she is!”

“You are a faithful servant: it is good, in these days, to find a woman so zealous on account of her mistress. Come in, good and faithful. Search the house all over. Come in — what are you afraid of? Put down your box, and go and look for your mistress.” Fanny obeyed. She ran into the house, opened the doors of the salon and the dining-room one after the other: no one was there. She ran up the stairs and looked into her mistress’s room: nothing was there, not even a ribbon or a hair-pin, to show the recent presence of a woman. She looked into Lord Harry’s room. Nothing was there. If a woman leaves hairpins about, a man leaves his toothbrush: nothing at all was there. Then she threw open the armoire in each room: nothing behind the doors. She came downstairs slowly, wondering what it all meant.

“May I look in the spare room?” she asked, expecting to be roughly refused.

“By all means — by all means,” said the doctor, blandly. “You know your way about. If there is anything left belonging to your mistress or to you, pray take it.”

She tried one more question.

“How is my patient? How is Mr. Oxbye?”

“He is gone.”

“Gone? Where has he gone to? Gone?”

“He went away yesterday — Friday. He was a grateful creature. I wish we had more such grateful creatures as well as more such faithful servants. He said something about finding his way to London in order to thank you properly. A good soul, indeed!”

“Gone?” she repeated. “Why, on Thursday morning I saw him —” She checked herself in time.

“It was on Wednesday morning that you saw him, and he was then recovering rapidly.”

“But he was far too weak to travel.”

“You may be quite certain that I should not have allowed him to go away unless he was strong enough.”

Fanny made no reply. She had seen with her own eyes the man lying still and white, as if in death; she had seen the new nurse rushing off, crying that he was dead. Now she was told that he was quite well, and that he had gone away! But it was no time for thought.

She was on the point of asking where the new nurse was, but she remembered in time that it was best for her to know nothing, and to awaken no suspicions. She opened the door of the spare room and looked in. Yes; the man was gone — dead or alive — and there were no traces left of his presence. The place was cleared up; the cupboard stood with open doors, empty; the bed was made; the curtain pushed back; the sofa was in its place against the wall; the window stood open. Nothing in the room at all to show that there had been an occupant only two days before. She stared blankly. The dead man was gone, then. Had her senses altogether deceived her? Was he not dead, but only sleeping? Was her horror only a thing of imagination? Behind her, in the hall, stood the doctor, smiling, cheerful.

She remembered that her first business was to find her mistress. She was not connected with the Dane. She closed the door and returned to the hall.

“Well,” asked the doctor, “have you made any discoveries? You see that the house is deserted. You will perhaps learn before long why. Now what will you do? Will you go back to London?”

“I must find her ladyship.”

The doctor smiled.

“Had you come here in a different spirit,” he said, “I would have spared you all this trouble. You come, however, with suspicion written on your face. You have always been suspecting and watching. It may be in a spirit of fidelity to your mistress; but such a spirit is not pleasing to other people, especially when there is not a single person who bears any resentment towards that mistress. Therefore, I have allowed you to run over the empty house, and to satisfy your suspicious soul. Lady Harry is not hidden here. As for Lord Harry — but you will hear in due time no doubt. And now I don’t mind telling you that I have her ladyship’s present address.”

“Oh! What is it?”

“She appears to have passed through Paris on her way to Switzerland two days ago, and has sent here her address for the next fortnight. She has now, I suppose, arrived there. The place is Berne; the Hotel ——. But how do I know that she wants you?”

“Of course she wants me.”

“Or of course you want her? Very good. Yours is the responsibility, not mine. Her address is the Hotel d’Angleterre. Shall I write it down for you? There it is. ‘Hotel d’Angleterre, Berne.’ Now you will not forget. She will remain there for one fortnight only. After that, I cannot say whither she may go. And, as all her things have been sent away, and as I am going away, I am not likely to hear.”

“Oh I must go to her. I must find her!” cried the woman earnestly; “if it is only to make sure that no evil is intended for her.”

“That is your business. For my own part, I know of no one who can wish her ladyship any evil.”

“Is my lord with her?”

“I don’t know whether that is your business. I have already told you that he is gone. If you join your mistress in Berne, you will very soon find out if he is there as well.” Something in his tone made Fanny look up quickly. But his face revealed nothing. “What shall you do then?” asked the doctor. “You must make up your mind quickly whether you will go back to England or whether you will go on to Switzerland. You cannot stay here, because I am putting together the last things, and I shall give the landlord the key of the house this evening. All the bills are paid, and I am going to leave the place.”

“I do not understand. There is the patient,” she murmured vaguely. “What does it mean? I cannot understand.”

“My good creature,” he replied roughly, “what the devil does it matter to me whether you understand or whether you do not understand? Her ladyship is, as I have told you, at Berne. If you please to follow her there, do so. It is your own affair, not mine. If you prefer to go back to London, do so. Still — your own affair. Is there anything else to say?”

Nothing. Fanny took up her box — this time the doctor did not offer to carry it for her.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “What have you decided?”

“I can get round by the Chemin de Fer de Ceinture to the Lyons station. I shall take the first cheap train which will take me to Berne.”

“Bon voyage!” said the doctor, cheerfully, and shut the door.

It is a long journey from Paris to Berne even for those who can travel first class and express — that is, if sixteen hours can be called a long journey. For those who have to jog along by third class, stopping at all the little country stations, it is a long and tedious journey indeed. The longest journey ends at last. The train rolled slowly into the station of Berne, and Fanny descended with her box. Her wanderings were over for the present. She would find her mistress and be at rest.

She asked to be directed to the Hotel d’Angleterre. The Swiss guardian of the peace with the cocked hat stared at her. She repeated the question.

“Hotel d’Angleterre?” he echoed. “There is no Hotel d’Angleterre in Berne.”

“Yes, yes; there is. I am the maid of a lady who is staying at that hotel.”

“No; there is no Hotel d’Angleterre,” he reported. “There is the Hotel Bernehof.”

“No.” She took out the paper and showed it to him —“Lady Harry Norland, Hotel d’Angleterre, Berne.”

“There is the Hotel de Belle Vue, the Hotel du Faucon, the Hotel Victoria, the Hotel Schweizerhof. There is the Hotel schrodel, the Hotel Schneider, the Pension Simkin.”

Fanny as yet had no other suspicion than that the doctor had accidentally written a wrong name. Her mistress was at Berne: she would be in one of the hotels. Berne is not a large place. Very good; ............