Glynn was far from being satisfied with his own decision. Of course the mere fact of having any woman offered to him is enough to make an Englishman reject her, were she an amalgamation of the Blessed Virgin, Florence Nightingale, Venus, and Psyche in one. That he should decline Lambert's suggestion was right enough, though the evident singleness of purpose, the intense fatherly feeling which prompted him, took from his strange proceeding all trace of coarse worldliness; but having congratulated himself on his own wisdom and firmness, another train of thought put itself in motion, haunting him with maddening pertinacity in all his comings and goings throughout the day which succeeded the memorable conversation. Elsie's face, her eyes, the quiet grace of her figure and movements, were perpetually before him. Her tender gravity, which did not prevent her from enjoying in brief light flashes of perception the droll side of things, the generous sympathy, ever ready to well up when needed,—all this was vividly present to his imagination. Had he done well to turn from so rich a store of goodly gifts because it was set in uncouth surroundings? Was it the part of a true man to count the cost, to shrink from any possible risk, rather than to brave all things for true love? When and where should he find a companion so sweet, so intelligent, so satisfying to heart and sense? Then again came the doubt,—would it be well to plant in the midst of one's home and its sanctities this branch of a wild vine, lovely though it was? Might not sorrow and disgraceful associations be the bitter fruit thereof? How would imperfect human nature—imperfect human love, stand such a test? If Elsie loved him, then he would dare all things; but she did not. It would be better for her, as well as for him, to leave her in the tranquillity of indifference than awaken an interest that could only lead to trouble. Yes, he would continue to preserve the tone of quiet friendliness he had adopted. Still he must not leave Paris immediately. He would not desert poor Lambert, who was evidently in a mess of some kind. Later on he would probably make a clean breast of it. So as it was Friday, Glynn determined to go to Madame Davilliers' in the evening, for the result of his wise cogitations was a burning desire to meet Miss Lambert to assure himself of her indifference.

The gathering at Madame Davilliers' was less crowded than usual; still a considerable number of visitors were present, among them one or two professional singers and Mr. Vincent, who was talking to Elsie when Glynn made his appearance. He was soon called away, however, by the hostess, and Glynn eagerly took his place.

Elsie greeted him with a bright amused smile, as though his presence suggested some droll idea.

"I don't see your father here to-night," said Glynn.

"He has been called rather suddenly to Dunkerque," she replied, "but will return on Monday. He seemed in better spirits, and I think the change will do him good."

"I hope so, especially as you reflect his moods. You are looking more like yourself than when I first returned."

"Ah, I was very miserable then. But one reason why I feel so much brighter is that my father has promised I shall go for a few months to Mrs. Kellett, to my old home, Woodburn, and then we shall give up our Étage here."

"And how will you bear the seclusion—the change from Parisian gaieties?" looking earnestly into her eyes, and wondering what motive underlay this sudden scheme.

"I shall like it very much; I should like anything that would secure peace."

"Pray, monsieur," said Madame Davilliers, who came up at that moment, "have you received your card for the ball on the 20th? Our young dÉbutantes, Mademoiselle Lambert and my Antoinette, count on you for one of their partners."

"I am infinitely honored; but I fear my dancing is not of the best. However, in such a cause, one would attempt the impossible."

"It is much to be regretted that the amiable Monsieur DÉrin is not in town; and ce cher M. Vincent does not know when he will return. Still our party will be large and distinguÉ."

Of that Glynn had no doubt. He had received his ticket, and if still in Paris would certainly present himself, etc., etc.

Then he felt obliged to offer his congratulations to Mademoiselle Antoinette, after which M. Le Vicomte was introduced, and it seemed to him that half the evening was over before he managed to return to Elsie. She was by no means solitary or neglected, however. Antoinette chattered perseveringly at her side, and various well-dressed employÉs in sundry imperial bureaux bestowed fragments of their time upon her. Vincent came back more than once to her side, and was tranquilly, if not favorably, received. At last Glynn contrived to obtain a seat beside her.

"Are you not going to sing to-night?"

"No; these gentlemen and Madame d'Italia will give us far better music than I can."

"Not in my opinion; your singing goes straight to my heart."

Elsie smiled and looked at her fan. Glynn felt almost irresistibly impelled to tell her how charming she was, but he did resist.

"I suppose I must not call while your father is absent," he resumed; "and I have found some delightful volumes in Tauchnitz, which I should like to give you."

"Can you not send them?" she asked, looking at him with laughing eyes. "I want books very much; no one gives me books but you."

"Then I must bring them myself."

"Why not? I shall be very glad to see you, so will Madame Weber."

"Thank you! May I come to-morrow?"

"To-morrow? No; to-morrow I go with Antoinette to visit the good ladies of the Annonciades, the convent where we were at school. But come on Sunday if you like. On Monday my dear father will be with me again; then he will be able to tell me when we can go to England."

"But you will return to Paris?"

"I do not know; nothing is certain."

"I hope you will promise certainly to dance with me at this ball."

"Shall you be here when it takes place?"

"Yes, certainly; nothing shall prevent me from being present."

A faint color flickered over Elsie's cheek, as if this resolution implied a personal compliment, and an amused smile parted her lips.

"Then you like dancing?"

"That depends. At any rate I want to dance the first dance with you at your first ball."

Elsie laughed. "Very well. But though I have never been at a great ball, I have been at several soirÉes dansantes with Madame Davilliers. Whenever Antoinette went they kindly took me."

"And I suppose you are fond of dancing?"

"I love it," earnestly.

"Does your friend Vincent dance well?"

"I believe he does; most Americans do; but he is not my friend, and I cannot bear to dance with him."

"You receive him very well considering you do not like him."

Elsie paused an instant, and looking up with an expression of trust, said in a low tone, "I am afraid of him."

"Why?" drawing unconsciously nearer to her.

"I cannot tell—no, that is not quite true; I begin, I think, to understand why."

"And will you not tell me?"

"I should rather like to tell you, but not here."

"On Sunday, then, when I bring you your books?"

"No; I do not want to mention his name before Madame Weber."

"Is she a friend of his?"

"I am not sure, but it is well to be cautious."

"It gives me a kind of shock to think you are obliged to be on guard in your own home."

"That will be all over when I am at Woodburn."

"I wish your father would come and settle in London; it would be pleasant and useful for you to have some English friends."

"It is more likely my father would settle in America."

"Then I should never see you!"

The words had passed his lips before he could restrain them, and he watched their effect keenly.

"I suppose not," very quietly. "I should be sorry, and my father would be very sorry."

Glynn felt unreasonably irritated. Was this young, slight, inexperienced girl stronger than himself, that the tone in which he was conscious his words were uttered should in no way move her? He was dimly aware of a change in her manner, so delicate as to be indefinable; it was not less friendly, but more collected, as if she thought before she spoke.

But Antoinette, approaching with an elderly cousin of her fiancÉ, who had requested an introduction to the belle AmÉricaine, put an end to their conversation, and not long after Elsie went away.

The days which intervened between Lambert's sudden journey to Dunkerque and the ball went rapidly—too rapidly. Glynn dined twice in the Rue de L'EvÊque. Lambert was grave, but less dejected than previously. He had the air of a man who had escaped from a period of indecision, and had thoroughly made up his mind. Glynn, on the contrary, sank deeper and deeper into the quicksands of irresolution, and felt each day more vividly how strong an effort it would cost him to tear himself away; how impossible it seemed to leave Elsie to the chances of undefined danger, none the less formidable because it was impalpable.

It was with an unaccountable impression that something important, something decisive would occur before the evening was over. Glynn dressed and dined, taking care to be in the ball-room and near the door in good time, in order to claim Elsie's promise of the first dance on her arrival. Madame Davilliers and her party were rather late, and, to Glynn's annoyance, she entered the room leaning on Vincent's arm. Mademoiselle followed, conducted by the Vicomte, and finally Elsie, leaning on M. Davilliers—Elsie in her first ball-dress, a delicious combination of white silk and tulle and lace, with sprays of wild roses, long grass, and foliage, a delicate wreath of the same flowers in her hair, and a simple necklace of shimmering Venetian shells round her throat. She looked a little shy, a little self-conscious, less composed than usual, and when she distinguished Glynn's tall figure, and met his dark, eager, admiring eyes, she colored suddenly, looking away with a smile so sweet, so glad, that Glynn's heart gave a quick bound, and throbbed with a triumphant sense of victory, after which reason gave up the struggle and resigned herself to defeat.

"This is our dance, Miss Lambert," said Glynn, after a brief greeting to the rest of the party as he took her hand. "But it is a set of lancers; would you not like to walk round and look at the decorations until the next dance, which is a waltz?"

"Thank you, I should." So Glynn took her programme and wrote his own name for several waltzes, prefacing each inscription with a persuasive "May I?" Elsie laughingly restricted the number, saying she had promised some dances to M. Davilliers, Henri Le Clerc, and M. de Pontigny. "But," she added, with slight graceful hesitation, "if it does not interfere with your other dances, might I say I am engaged to you if Mr. Vincent asks me for a waltz? I must dance with him, but not a waltz,—I cannot."

"Yes, I will grant your very serious request," said Glynn, smiling down upon her. "I shall keep all waltzes at your disposal, and take care to be within hail! Is it permitted to a brutal Englishman to say your toilette is perfect?"

"I am very glad you think so; it is chiefly Madame Davilliers' choice. It pleased my father, who never counts the cost of anything for me," she sighed.

"Why is Lambert not here to see your triumph?"

"He did think of coming, but felt too tired; he has been very busy, so it was decided that I should come with the Davilliers; and if we stay very late I am to go home with them, for my father always wakes when I come in."

The decorations were duly admired, and then the waltz for which Glynn had been longing struck up.

Given good music, a first-rate floor, a partner whose step suits yours, and waltzing is certainly a pleasant exercise; but when in addition your partner is just the very creature that you have felt tempted over and over again to clasp in your arms, and pour out expressions of tenderness and admiration while your heart throbs against hers, the pleasure becomes almost painful.

Glynn, as the hours went rapidly by, felt his power over himself melting away; there was a soft reserve, a frequent avoidance of being alone with him on the part of Miss Lambert, that fanned the long-smouldering fire of passion into a strong, an irresistible glow. Why should he let himself be cheated by cold caution out of the delicious, perhaps invigorating draught which fortune offered him? He was no mere conventional man of the world to turn his back on a woman worthy of all love because her father was not exactly eligible to be comptroller of Her Majesty's household! He would be true to his better instincts, his higher self.

Meantime it was infinitely irritating to be obliged to give up his fascinating partner from time to time as other cavaliers came to claim her.

Suddenly, as he was leading her across the room to Madame Davilliers, he felt her start and press his arm, a movement which he attributed to Vincent's approach.

"You have not granted me a waltz yet, Miss Lambert; may I have the next?" said the American.

"I am engaged for the next."

"Indeed! to Mr. Glynn? He has been so highly favored that I think he might permit a change of partners, as I am obliged to leave almost immediately, and shall not see you again for some time. I start by the early mail for Bordeaux to-morrow, or rather this morning."

"I have less benevolence than you credit me with," Glynn haughtily. "I am not disposed to forego an iota of my temporary right."

"What would your father say to your desertion of your old friend for a new acquaintance?" asked Vincent with an unpleasant laugh.

To Glynn's surprise Elsie made a slight movement as if to withdraw her arm. Glynn held it tightly against his side.

"I have not deserted you, Mr. Vincent," she said quietly, as if recovering her first impulse to leave Glynn, "for I was not engaged to you."

"Perhaps not; we will discuss that point when we meet next," returned Vincent with insolent assurance. "Meantime au revoir, Miss Lambert. Good-bye, Mr. Glynn; I don't suppose I shall see you again." He made a sort of defiant bow and turned away.

"Come and sit down in the ante-room," said Glynn, "it is cool and quiet; that brute has disturbed you." Miss Lambert silently accepted the suggestion, and as a new dance proceeded they were soon alone.

"For heaven's sake tell me what it is that enables that fellow to annoy you?" said Glynn earnestly; "you said you would tell me."

"I never liked him, but latterly I perceive that he has some curious influence over my father, who has even asked me to be civil to him. Perhaps I ought not to tell you this, but my father trusts you, and I—I believe you are loyal. I am still uneasy about my father. He is so restless, and I imagine he is always more restless when he has been with Mr. Vincent. I sometimes think that my father has had a hard, sad life, though he tries to forget his troubles, and I want to make up to him for the past. He loves me so much that I must do everything for him, and be with him always."

"The young cannot always promise for their future, and he would be happiest, knowing you were happy."

"But I should not; he deserves all I can do, and it would hurt me, oh! cruelly, to think he ever wanted anything when I was not there to give it to him." The sweet, soft lips quivered with feeling as she spoke.

"This is a heart worth winning," thought Glynn, as he gazed on her pensive, downcast face.

"I wish he would tell you something about Mr. Vincent before you go," continued Elsie. "I feel oppressed with a sense of indefinable mischief."

"Before I go!" repeated Glynn. "How do you know I am going?"

"I heard my father say you were going, and of course you will not stay in Paris."

"I cannot tear myself from it," said Glynn with passionate emphasis.

"Why?" asked Elsie, looking up surprised, then meeting his gaze, a vivid blush passed over her cheek, fading away quickly.

"Why?" he exclaimed. "May I come and tell you why? to-morrow will you hear my explanation, with kindness, with patience?"

"Ah!" she returned, shrinking slightly, "it is late—Madame Davilliers will be looking for me."

"But, Elsie, may I come,—will you hear me?"

"Yes," she said, very gravely and softly, "you may come." Other couples now invaded their solitude, and Glynn was obliged to take her to her chaperon.

Madame Davilliers was ready to leave the ball, and observed that the dear child, meaning Elsie, looked quite tired.

Glynn accompanied them to the door, wrapping Elsie's cloak round her carefully.

"To-morrow," he whispered, pressing her arm to his side. She looked up—a serious, searching look.

"You puzzle me!" she said.

"How? but you will tell me how and why! When may I come to-morrow?"

"In the afternoon."

"You will stay with us to-night, chÈre Elsie?" cried Madame Davilliers from the carriage.

"A thousand thanks, but I should rather go home; I have caught cold, I think." Her voice was unsteady, and Glynn noticed that she was trembling. He longed to speak some soothing words to her, but there was no possibility of doing so. The next moment the door was shut, the coachman ordered to drive to the Rue de L'EvÊque, and Glynn left gazing after the retreating vehicle.

Bidding good-night to young Le Clerc, who was returning to the ball-room, Glynn lit his cigar, and walked slowly down the Rue de Rivoli. It was a heavy, intensely dark night; but he was too much excited to feel atmospheric influences. In his own mind he had passed the rubicon; and his request to Elsie for an interview on the morrow had, he considered, pledged him to offer his future life for her acceptance. Would she accept it? He was too deeply and truly in love to make sure of the impression he had created himself, too much in earnest not to be humble. Elsie had been startled, touched; but it did not follow that she loved him. However she decided, he was glad he had spoken as he did. She must know what his intended explanation meant; would she have promised to hear it if she were not disposed to hear it favorably? If!—what rapture of anticipation shivered through him at the possibilities thus suggested. Then he almost laughed aloud at the idea of Lady Gethin's anger and despair at such a marriage as he contemplated. He even pictured a future home, so peaceful, so lovingly home-like, that not even the tolerably frequent visits of Lambert in his gorgeous array and most anecdotal mood should disturb its delicious harmony! The first faint streaks of daylight were stealing across the eastern sky when Glynn at length entered his hotel.

The porter handed him his key, and with it a card, on which was printed, "Travers Deering, Denham Castle," and written in pencil, "Want particularly to see you. Will call to-morrow about two."

"What an infernal nuisance!" was Glynn's rather profane reflection; "he shall not keep me here after 2.30 if it were to save his life!"

Deering was not punctual. It was already two o'clock when he presented himself, and he at once asked Glynn to let their interview take place in the latter's private room, as he wished to speak of personal matters. They therefore adjourned from the general salon, and Deering quickly plunged into his subject, which was to ask Glynn's advice as to the organizing of a scheme for making a branch from the main line of railway, which ran within eight or nine miles of Denham, to some villages on his estate, and past a certain quarry he had lately begun to work. This had been suggested by a shrewd land-agent, and Deering was anxious to consult Glynn before he left Paris for his summer wanderings. The conversation which ensued was animated and interesting; but Glynn did not forget to look at his watch from time to time.

"I see I am keeping you," said Deering, observing his movement; "I shall not trespass any longer. I shall follow your advice, and see the heads of your firm as to funds on my way through London. How is our queer acquaintance Lambert and his incomparable daughter? I have found traces of a curious story connected with him, which if true——," as he spoke the door was burst open, and Lambert rushed in—Lambert in a state of intense agonized excitement. His eyes wild with angry terror, his face pallid through all the deep sunburn of its acquired tint, a slight froth at the corners of his mouth, his necktie disarranged, his hands gloveless; both Deering and Glynn started to their feet at this unexpected apparition.

"My child!" cried Lambert hoarsely, "where is my child? Deering, you limb of the devil! have you helped that scoundrel Vincent to take her away? For God's sake tell me! have mercy! I'll do anything! Glynn, you will help me? you are an honest, honorable man. She's gone, and I am going mad!"

"Gone!" cried his hearers together, "what do you mean?"

"Listen," said Lambert, gasping as if for breath, and throwing himself into a chair. "She was at the ball last night. Why did I ever let her from under my own eyes! It was agreed that if she was late she should stay at the Davilliers'. When I asked for her this morning the bonne said she had not returned, so I thought no more about it, and went to work as usual. I had some business appointments, and then I turned into Davilliers', thinking I'd walk home with Elsie—my jewel! if she was still there. But she wasn't,—oh! great heavens! they had left her at her own door, seen her go in, and heard it close; and now she is gone!"

"But this is not possible! Mademoiselle Antoinette is playing some stupid trick. Have you——"

"I tell you they are nearly as distracted as I am," interrupted Lambert, starting up and grasping the back of his chair. "I rushed to your hotel, Deering, for I cannot help thinking Vincent has some hand in it. He is a double-dyed scoundrel. Deering, I charge you not to screen him!"

"How dare you accuse me of such villainy!" cried Deering in great agitation. "I am as ignorant of the affair as you are—more so; don't pretend that you are without suspicion. She has not been taken away without her own consent; you must have some idea who it is she has gone off with."

Glynn, in the midst of his own stunning horror, was struck with the consternation which Deering's face expressed, and was inclined to acquit him of any guilt in the matter.

"Have you been to the police? No; for God's sake let us lose no time." Glynn seized his hat. "I will go with you."

"I returned to question the concierge in order to get some clue before going to the PrefÉcture de Police; then I felt obliged to question him," nodding to Deering, "to tell you—to—Oh! stand by me, Glynn, my head is going."

"You must keep calm for her sake," said Glynn; "come on, if she is above ground we'll find her!"

"And I'll second you so far as I can," cried Deering, "though you have attacked me so shamefully."

Lambert with a dazed, half-stupefied air, stared at him, till Glynn, who felt his own head reeling under the shock, passed his arm through his, and led him to the fiacre which was waiting.

Little was said, except to urge the driver to greater speed, until they reached the Rue de JÉrusalem, where, after a short parley with one or two lower officials, they were admitted to the presence of the chief of the detectives, a quiet, simple-looking, iron-grey man, with watchful eyes, and a clear, penetrating voice. He listened with profound attention to Lambert's statement, scarcely putting a question, only occasionally restraining the details. Lambert had evidently made a supreme effort to master his terrible emotion, the vital necessity for clearness giving him a force beyond himself.

While Glynn listened with agonized keenness to the recital, he also heard the whispered terrors of his own heart. What horror had befallen the tender, delicate darling whom he had hoped to call his promised wife that day? To what hideous plot had she fallen a victim? He scarcely knew how to restrain the wild impulse to rush forth in hopeless blind pursuit.

Having heard all particulars, M. Claude (the chef) took a sheet of paper, and demanded a description of the young lady. This was furnished by both Lambert and Glynn, the latter eagerly adding some characteristic details of which even the father did not think. Claude then touched a bell, and ordered the subordinate who answered it to telegraph the description at once to every seaport and frontier-town in France, warning the police de sÛretÉ in each place to arrest any person answering to it, no matter who accompanied.

"Time has been lost already," said the immovable chef. "Still, things are always discovered. Have the goodness to answer my questions."

"Will you say," broke in Deering with his supreme air, addressing himself to Glynn, "that I shall be happy to guarantee expenses."

"Damn your money!" cried Lambert, turning on him fiercely; "not a penny of it shall pay for the recovery of my child."

"He doesn't know what he is saying, poor beggar," said Deering in an undertone, with contemptuous pity, and an evil look on his face. "As I don't understand what is going on, I'll leave you. I have an idea she'll make for England, if she hasn't gone off with some Yankee. So I shall write to my lawyers to stir up our detectives. I will call at your hotel for further news this evening, Glynn." He left the bureau, and Glynn gave his undivided attention to the interrogatories, noting with despair, which increased every moment, the hopelessness of the search in the face of nearly twenty-four hours' start.

That the extraordinary finesse of the police should finally succeed was possible, but in the interim what crime might not be committed?

The distinct queries of the astute detective established—That Lambert had risen at his usual hour; that on receiving his coffee from the bonne, he asked if mademoiselle had returned; and finding she had not, remarked that doubtless she had danced well and late, so it was better for her to stay at Madame Davilliers' for the night. He also inquired if Celestine, the bonne, had taken her young lady's morning-dress to Madame Davilliers', to which she replied in the affirmative.

The concierge had heard the bell about two or half-past, had pulled the cordon, heard the door shut—it was a heavy door—and recognized Mademoiselle Lambert's voice; after that there was no trace.

"Have you any suspicion? Had your daughter any admirer to whom you were averse?"

"No; certainly not."

"Certain you cannot be where a young lady is in question," said M. Claude with quiet cynicism. "But is there no one towards whom your suspicion points? you spoke angrily to the gentleman who has just gone out."

"There is one man respecting whom I have some doubts, and that gentleman is his associate." Lambert proceeded to describe Vincent with considerable accuracy, adding that he had more than once demanded the hand of his daughter; but that the young lady herself was strongly opposed to him.

Here Glynn, who had been listening with painful, feverish interest to the dialogue, volunteered an account of his appearance at the ball on the previous night; of his endeavor to persuade Mademoiselle Lambert to dance with him, and his avowed intention of leaving early that morning for Bordeaux. These details were all carefully noted down.

Then M. Claude, rising, said, "Now to view the house." He struck a bell which stood beside his desk, and while he gave some instructions to the officer who answered his summons, he put on his gloves, locked his desk, and directed that a certain commissaire should accompany him to M. Lambert's residence. "I suppose you will wish to assist in the examination of the premises?" said M. Claude; "you may help to throw light on the case."

"Of course I will go with you."

"And you will allow me to assist so far as I can," urged Glynn.

"But can nothing more be done? no more rapid action taken?" cried the fevered, agitated father, letting his closed hand fall heavily on the table. The chef took out his watch, glanced at it, and remarked dramatically, "It is forty minutes since I noted down your description of your daughter, and all egress from France is closed to her."

Lambert uttered a low moan.

"We must let them work their own way. They know what they are about; but the suspense is almost intolerable," said Glynn, whose heart was bursting with despair and remorse. Why had he not accepted Lambert's proposition? Had he been Elsie's betrothed, this might not have happened!

The drive to the Rue de L'EvÊque seemed endless; Lambert sat immovable and speechless. Arrived, the chef de la sÛretÉ and his subaltern immediately proceeded to examine the house carefully, and to question the concierge as to the tenants. In the rez-de-chaussÉe was the magasin of a Patent Polish Stove Company; on the first Étage an old lady with her son and daughter-in-law resided. "Persons of high consideration," said the tearful concierge. The second Étage was vacant; M. Lambert occupied the third. Then came a Professor of Music, Mons. le Capitain Galliard, Maitre d'Armes, and others.

Both Lambert and Glynn watched with quivering interest the deliberate minuteness of the examination, first of the concierge, then of the house itself. The Professor of Music and the Maitre d'Armes were out, so M. Claude contented himself for the present by asking some leading questions about them.

Then he and his attendant commissaire ascended to Lambert's apartment, and questioned Madame Weber and the bonne as to the smallest details concerning the missing girl; her character, her habits of life, her friends, her pursuits, and finally asked for her last photograph. It sent a sharp dart of angry pain through Glynn's heart to see the chef de la sÛretÉ and his aide-de-camp coolly examining the portrait which to him had a certain sanctity, to observe the unmoved composure of the practiced detectives in face of the father's despairing anxiety, the professional instinct which subordinated human interest to the keen perception of possible crime, the sleuth-hound scent for a legitimate prey.

From Lambert's abode they proceeded to the vacant Étage, which the concierge, in all the tearful yet delightful excitement of such an extraordinary occurrence, threw open with eager zeal.

It was almost the same as the dwelling above, and after looking carefully through the empty rooms they reached the kitchen. The door was fastened.

"Tiens!" cried the concierge, looking rapidly through the keys she carried, "this is strange. I do not remember locking the door, and I have not been in here more than twice since the day you looked at the apartment, Monsieur Lambert, for some friends who thought of coming to Paris."

While she spoke the commissaire had thrust the blade of his penknife into the key-hole. "The key is inside," he said.

"It is impossible," cried the concierge.

"Go round by l'escalier de service (back stair) with madame," said M. Claude to his subordinate. "There is a door leading thence to the kitchen, is there not?"

"But yes, certainly that will also be locked; I have a pass-key, however, for these outer doors." A few minutes of silent waiting and voices were heard within, then the door was opened by the concierge, whose usually rosy face looked a yellowish white. "Bon dieu!" she whispered, "the outside door was unlocked, and here is the key which opens both, in this lock. I swear that the day before yesterday I locked the outside door carefully; nor have I ascended this stair since."

"Let us examine this room carefully," said the chef, with a shade of additional gravity.

The search was most thorough, every little cupboard, every nook, the stove, the oven, an old box, every inch of the dingy empty kitchen was minutely scrutinized,—all present assisting. Suddenly a speck of white in a dark corner attracted Glynn's eye. He picked it up. It was a morsel of fine lace entangled with a knot of the narrowest black velvet ribbon, from which dangled a broken end. With a sickening sensation of horror and dread Glynn picked up this infinitesimal yet eloquent suggestion of a struggle, and silently handed it to M. Claude.

"Ha!" exclaimed that functionary, gazing at it with some eagerness; then he added, "Mademoiselle changed her toilet too hastily."

"Good God!" cried Lambert, "she wore just such a velvet string as this through the lace of her dress; I noticed it!"—and so had Glynn. With what bitterness he recalled his admiration of the creamy whiteness of her neck contrasted with the black line surrounding it. "Do you—do you think she is murdered?" continued Lambert in an agonized whisper, staring wildly at the lace.

"No, I do not," said M. Claude, apparently somewhat moved by the father's intense misery. "I do not suppose her life would be attempted by any one, unless indeed there are some circumstances in her or your history with which I am unacquainted. But I believe what may be as bitter as her death to you,—that she has gone with her own free consent."

"And that I never can believe," cried Lambert. "She—the sweetest, most loving, obedient child man ever had!"

"Even so," said the detective with a tinge of sadness.

"The affair might have occurred under chloroform," said the commissaire in a low submissive tone. "A resolute practiced villain meets her ascending the stairs; a handkerchief saturated with chloroform suddenly wrapped round her face renders her helpless. She is carried through this empty apartment, her dress changed while she is still insensible." An irrepressible groan from Glynn made the chef de la sÛretÉ look at him. "They carry her down-stairs," continued the commissaire.

"And then," interrupted the concierge shrilly, "they are caught! how can any one get out without calling me? My faith! do you think I neglect my duties, or that a great warrior like my husband, now en retraite, and employed at the Gare St. Lazare, would permit half a dozen such brigands to pass?"

"Silence!" said M. Claude, impressively. "Feel along the floor, in that corner beyond the window."

His subordinate obeyed, and discovered a small square of chocolate, a few crumbs of bread, and two pins. These last were most carefully examined.

"They are English," said the detective. "But that is easily accounted for; the person or persons engaged in the abduction evidently partook of refreshment; nor is there any sign leading to the supposition of violence. The difficulty is to discover how they managed to leave the house. At what hour did you lock the door and put out your light last night?" to the concierge.

In reply to his questions she stated that the entrance door was always locked at ten o'clock, but that she herself often sat up till eleven. Last night, feeling weary, she went to bed at half-past ten. Before she slept the bell rang, and she pulled the cordon. M. Lambert's voice said who was there, and bid her good-night. Twice after, entrance was demanded by different inmates; then, after what seemed to her a long time, some one rang, and waking completely, she distinctly heard Miss Lambert's voice. She did not sleep again for what seemed to her more than an hour, during which all was profoundly quiet. She always rose before six, and after lighting her fire to prepare the coffee of monsieur her husband, she unlocked the great door and went to fill her pail with water at a pump, which was in a court on which the entrance opened at the far side from the street, in order to wash the passage.

"Can you see the chief entrance from this court?"

"But yes, certainly."

"And the pump, how is it situated?"

"About the centre."

"I shall inspect it," said M. Claude. Having carefully wrapped up the morsel of lace and ribbon, the square of chocolate and the two pins, and placed them in an inner pocket, M. Claude led the way down-stairs to the court mentioned by the concierge, followed by her, Lambert, and Glynn, who were too penetrated by the sense of their own helplessness in such an affair to offer any interference or suggestion.

The court, which was like a well, being surrounded by lofty houses, was exactly opposite the entrance; and the pump, as stated, was in the centre, but with its back towards the doorway, so that any one using the handle to raise the water would naturally turn his or her face from it, especially as it was necessary to watch the filling of whatever vessel was placed below the spout. After looking carefully at the relative positions of the door and the pump, M. Claude requested the concierge to fill a pail of water as she was in the habit of doing. She obeyed; he stood behind her during the operation, and at the end observed, "The fugitives walked through the open door while you were pumping; no force or chloroform could have been used." The concierge burst into tears. "Gentlemen," continued the chef de la sÛretÉ, "I shall now proceed to Madame Davilliers, and the remainder of my inquiries I wish to prosecute alone. M. Lambert, do me the favor to call at my office to-morrow morning about ten, and come unaccompanied."

"And can you do no more to-day?" asked poor Lambert, his mouth twitching from the nervous strain of suppressing his cruel anxiety.

"I consider that we have secured a clue. I feel sure of finding your daughter; if not immediately, at no distant date."

"At no distant date," repeated the father, as the chef de la sÛretÉ left the house followed by the commissaire. "But in the meantime!—Oh God, Glynn, how can I live on such a rack, and I don't know where to turn!"

"It is almost unbearable. Can you remember nothing that might serve as a clue to her extraordinary disappearance?"

"Nothing. If I don't find her, I have done with life."

"I feel for you, Lambert, from the bottom of my soul. I'd give all I possess to know that Elsie is safe! you'll have an awful night of it. Shall I stay with you?"

"I am best alone," returned Lambert, looking sharply at him. "I didn't think you cared so much. Thank ye—I am best alone."