Glynn had known some rough times in his life, but a stupendous calamity such as had now overtaken him can only happen once in an existence. Little more than twelve hours before he had thrilled at Elsie's touch, and dreamed of winning her love! Why had he not accompanied her to her house, and seen her safely within her father's door? What was the dim haze of mystery which had hung about her, and had now suddenly deepened into darkness so profound that it defied conjecture? And suppose she were discovered, might not the discovery be nearly as terrible as the loss? In spite of M. Claude's profound conviction that Miss Lambert had gone willingly, Glynn could not, would not believe that there was a shadow of duplicity in the soul that looked so candidly, so earnestly out of those glorious deep-blue eyes. No; but she might have been decoyed away by some plausible story; if so, she was not wanting in courage and resolution; she would probably manage to communicate with Lambert. But in the meantime what agonies of terror, what unspeakable distress she must endure.

After a hideous night, during which he did not attempt to undress, Glynn was early next morning at the Rue de L'EvÊque.

Lambert looked less terribly agitated than he was the day before, but he had an exhausted, stupefied air, as if nature could not hold out much longer. He was dressed and ready to go out, however, and as he was too soon for the appointment with M. Claude, Glynn accompanied him to see Madame Davilliers, who with her husband had visited and condoled with the bereaved father more than once during the previous evening.

They found her still much agitated. She received Lambert with affectionate sympathy, but talked in a strain that maddened Glynn. The chef de la sÛretÉ had evidently communicated to her his own belief that Elsie had fled willingly.

"Antoinette," she said, "was weeping in her own room; the poor child could not of course understand the despair of her elders. To her it was like some fairy tale of a cruel ogre; the less she heard of so awful a catastrophe the better. It is not for me to judge the habits of other nations," continued madame, "but the results of such freedom as is permitted to young American girls cannot fail to be fatal! That dear Elsie was an angel of goodness and purity, brought up by those holy ladies of the convent, and all the more likely to be led away, because of her extreme innocence. She" (Madame Davilliers) "was the last woman to be taken up with egotism; but the disgrace of such an occurrence would reflect on all who had come in contact with the unhappy one."

"Do you mean to say that you think my child, my jewel, my pride, is to blame? that any one living could lead her astray?" almost screamed Lambert, stung from his despairing apathy into angry excitement.

"Dear monsieur, I only blame your system, not its victim!"

"You are premature in your conclusions," said Glynn with cold displeasure. "Within twenty-four hours she will no doubt be discovered, and all that seems inexplicable explained."

"I trust it may be so, monsieur; meanwhile I agree with the excellent M. Claude that the affair should be kept as secret as possible; rumor will make everything worse than it really is, and for the sake of——"

"Adieu, madame; mine is too terrible an affliction to leave room for thought about appearances!" cried poor Lambert, turning away.

"Poor unhappy father! all things may be pardoned to him," said madame compassionately to Glynn, who bowed silently and followed his distracted friend.

Arrived at the Bureau de la sÛretÉ, Glynn remained outside, slowly pacing the street; and while he waited, somewhat to his surprise he saw Deering come out from a different door to that by which Lambert had entered. He was accompanied by a man in uniform, and walked briskly away, in the same direction in which Glynn was sauntering; but as they were considerably ahead of him, it was useless to attempt pursuit. Nor did Glynn particularly wish to speak with Deering. He felt that for some occult reason he was Lambert's enemy, and he entirely acquitted him of any share in Elsie's disappearance. That he should make independent inquiries was natural, as Lambert's treatment of him the previous day almost forbid their holding further intercourse; probably the man with him was an official interpreter. Glynn's thoughts were sufficiently painful as he strolled to and fro. He wished Lambert would voluntarily confide to him the secret of his enmity to Deering. He felt an unreasoning conviction that the extraordinary disappearance of Elsie was in some way connected with it.

Time went slowly, painfully; but at length a sergent de ville approaching, saluted him, saying, "Will monsieur give himself the trouble to enter? M. Le Chef wishes to speak to him."

Glynn followed readily, and found Claude alone.

"Monsieur Lambert awaits you in an ante-chamber," said the grave chef; "you shall soon be at liberty to join him. Meantime you will have no objection to answer a few questions." He proceeded to put a few leading queries as to Glynn's position and occupation, the origin of his acquaintance with Lambert, its renewal, his knowledge of Deering and Vincent, and their connection with father and daughter. The astute chef was courteous though searching, and having meditated for a moment or two, said, "I should recommend your advising your friend to confide every circumstance connected with his daughter to me. He is keeping something back, and that something nullifies all our efforts."

"I think he must have told you everything, especially connected with his daughter."

"There is small chance of success if he does not."

"I suppose you have no intelligence as yet?" said Glynn.

"This is all we have discovered," said M. Claude, throwing open the doors of a large armoire, or clothes-press, and there hung, in ghastly mockery, the pretty white ball-dress which had so delightfully become the wearer, its bouquets of wild flowers crushed and flattened, and a long revolting stain of half-dried mud along one side of the creamy silk.

"Good God!" exclaimed Glynn, starting back horror-struck. "Where—where did you find this?"

"One of our men found it near the Pont de L'Alma early this morning. See! here is where the lace and knot of ribbon were torn away. There is no other mark of violence. The intention evidently was to throw the parcel (it was tightly rolled up) into the Seine; but it fell short, and the river was low. You recognize the dress?"

"Yes; and now?"

"This proves nothing," said the imperturbable M. Claude. "The dress was deliberately thrown away, either to direct attention on a wrong scent, or simply to get rid of an encumbrance."

"Then you have not advanced since yesterday?"

"Not much. I have found that M. Vincent is at Bordeaux, but alone."

"And you have seen M. Deering?" said Glynn, quickly.

"Yes," returned M. Claude, looking at him for an instant. "He came to seek tidings of the missing young lady, in whom he seems deeply interested."

There was a pause. Glynn sought in his soul for some suggestion to keep the inscrutable detective in conversation. He could not help a conviction that he was in possession of more information than he cared to impart; but nothing came to him.

"You do not, then, believe that any great crime has been committed?" he faltered.

"All things are possible; but I hope that before many days are over you will hear from the young lady herself. I believe it is an unusually clever case of elopement. I have communicated with the English police; but"—an eloquent shrug—"they have fewer facilities than we. My telegram yesterday was too late to catch the Dover mail-boat—not that I think it was of much consequence, for——"

His reason was never uttered; a tap at the door interrupted him. He rose, took a dispatch from the hands of a messenger. Closing the door, he read it, and then with a grim smile said:

"My suspicions are not far wrong. The young lady is safe and well at Bordeaux—and not alone."

"What does your employÉ say?" cried Glynn, not much comforted by the announcement.

"Read for yourself," said M. Claude, handing the telegram to him.

Glynn eagerly scanned the lines.

"Young English or American lady answering to description arrived here last evening; is staying at 'The Lion d'Or,' on the quay. Has been visited by the captain of an American steamer and another man. Father must come at once and identify her, or she may escape."

"This is some mistake," said Glynn, the words dancing before his eyes. "This cannot be Miss Lambert."

"It is most unlikely that my colleague at Bordeaux should be in error. He is one of the shrewdest employÉs of the sÛretÉ. At all events we must inform the father."

He rang, and desired that M. Lambert should be recalled. Glynn was infinitely touched by the dulled, helpless look of the once bright, alert Lambert. He watched him read the telegram, and observed with surprise that his face brightened, and an expression of pleasure gleamed in his eyes.

"This is a chance, anyhow," he exclaimed. "Of course I'll go. When is the next train?"

The detective watched him curiously.

"But, Lambert," exclaimed Glynn in English, "you surely do not believe this can be your daughter? You do not think that delicate, tender creature would fly from you to meet men of whom you know nothing?"

"Maybe I do," said Lambert, "and maybe I don't. Drowning men catch at straws. I'll go, anyway."

He swayed slightly as he spoke, and caught Glynn's arm.

"It is more than he can bear," said M. Claude, with a rare gleam of feeling. "I will telegraph to my colleague to meet you at the Gare. The mail train leaves at six. You will be in Bordeaux about noon to-morrow. You will, I trust, need no further assistance from my department. I wish you good-morning, gentlemen."

He opened the door politely, and they went forth.

"Lambert," said Glynn, as he supported his friend's unsteady steps, "you are not fit to travel alone. I will go with you."

"I'm better," returned Lambert, withdrawing his arm, "and I thank you from the bottom of my heart; but I'd rather go alone. If—if—oh! great heavens!—She mightn't like to see you, Glynn. No, no," with increasing decision, "I would rather go alone, and I will send you word what I find. You have been wonderfully good to me, and you know what she was—is. Why do I despair? If—oh if," with sudden fury, "I ever get my grip on the infernal villain that drove her to this, he'll have seen the last of light, and go down to darkness forever. There, I don't know what I am talking about. My head seems all wrong."

"You had better let me go with you, Lambert. Believe me, you are not fit to go alone, and you must keep well, at any rate, till you recover or rescue your daughter."

"Recover her! Ay, that I will," standing still suddenly. "Do you think I'm not proof against everything till I find her? and then—and then, when she is safe, I have done my work, and I'll rest—ay, rest well and long. But I'll make this journey alone."

There was nothing for it but to give up all thoughts of persuading him. Then he seemed to revive, to master his terrible despondency. He accepted Glynn's invitation to luncheon, and forced himself to take food and wine. Then he returned to his desolate home, to make preparations for his departure; finally Glynn saw him safely into the train.

The hours which succeeded, how slowly, yet swiftly, they dragged their torturing length! slowly, for the moments as they dropped into the abyss of the past seemed deliberately distilled from the bitterest ingredients life could supply; swiftly, for every hour of delay added to the difficulty of the search, on the success of which all Glynn's hopes hung. He exhausted himself wandering to and fro the Rue de L'EvÊque, the Rue de JÉrusalem, even the Morgue, where he would rather have found the corpse of her he loved than know her alive under such circumstances as the detective's telegram suggested. But this he did not for a moment believe, though through his long mental agony strange doubts would obtrude themselves—more of Lambert than his daughter. He was evidently concealing something. Those vague threats against some unnamed villain, what did they indicate? Knowledge of some possible and real abduction, or merely imaginative fury?

Still, fast or slow, the hours went by. Glynn was finally overcome with fatigue and sleep, so enjoyed a few hours of blessed oblivion.

He woke with a startled sense of wrong-doing in having forgotten even for a moment the awful uncertainty that had laid its curse upon him, and collecting his thoughts, remembered his surprise at not having received a telegraphic message from Lambert. True, he might not have succeeded at once in seeing his supposed daughter.

The expected communication came, however, before he sallied forth to renew the restless round of yesterday——

"Officer mistaken. A fresh track. Am off to Marseilles Will write."

In a sense this was a relief; but Marseilles? that seemed the most unlikely place to find the object of their search. However, all places were unlikely. Lambert had better keep at hand in Paris. He would write and beg him to return.

Glynn had taken his hat and was at the door, when some one knocked, and Deering entered, well-dressed, cool, distinguished-looking, as ever, but with a somewhat haggard aspect, and a set, sinister expression about his mouth.

"I suppose you have heard nothing fresh? no discovery of any clue to the whereabouts of Lambert's daughter?" he asked.

"Nothing. Her father went down to Bordeaux yesterday at the suggestion of M. Claude to identify a girl described as resembling Miss Lambert. I have just had this telegram from him."

"Ha!" said Deering, on reading it, "I doubt if Lambert will afford M. Claude much assistance. I fancy some of his raffish associates have carried off the young lady, and he is too much in their power to be very earnest about discovering or punishing them."

"Have you suggested this idea to the chef de la sÛretÉ?" asked Glynn coldly.

"Why should you think so?"

"Because he talked to me of Lambert's concealments as militating against the success of the search, just after you left him."

Deering's brows met in a fierce, quick frown, and then resumed their ordinary haughty composure. "Yes; I thought it well to warn him. I am even now endeavoring to sift a curious story about Lambert; it may not be true, but I am a good deal concerned at this disappearance of his daughter, and, I think, so are you. She is a fascinating morsel of female flesh, and it is maddening to see the prize you had marked for your own carried off under your very eyes. Really there is no line deep enough to fathom a woman."

"I never marked Miss Lambert as my own," said Glynn angrily. "I object to your mode of mentioning her. As to Lambert, no one can doubt the unfortunate man's despair and distress. I do not believe that Miss Lambert left her home willingly, unless decoyed by false pretences."

"Be that as it may, I would give a good deal to know where she is. I believe she is in England; she was brought up there, I believe. Well, I cross to-night, and will set the police at work so soon as I get to London. Shall you be much longer here?"

"My movements are uncertain," returned Glynn stiffly.

"You'll wait and assist the bereaved father, I presume," said Deering, with an unpleasant smile. "By the way, Vincent has returned, and is awfully cut up about the affair. Vincent was, I fancy, a suitor; might have been a decent match for Miss Lambert; he is a shrewd fellow. But you are in a hurry, I will not detain you."

He bid Glynn "good-morning" with courteous friendliness, and left him half-maddened with torturing waves of doubt, which seemed rising on all sides.

Another long miserable day, its only solace a visit to poor Madame Weber and Celestine, who talked of the "dear lost child" with unbounded panegyric and floods of tears.

No letter from Lambert, and failure in an attempt to see the chef de la sÛretÉ, completed the day's trials.

The fourth morning brought Lambert's promised letter. The girl supposed to resemble Elsie was a rouged modeste, with dyed hair, and rather good blue eyes, the only real point of resemblance. "The reasons for his expedition to Marseilles were too numerous for a letter," Lambert wrote. "He had some faint hopes of success, and would tell all when he returned, if Glynn was still in Paris." If! how could he tear himself away till this cruel mystery was cleared up?

In the porter's lodge, as he passed out, Glynn found a police agent with a message—Could he come soon to the Bureau de la sÛretÉ? M. le Chef wished to speak with him.

Glynn's reply was to hail a fiacre, and making the agent come with him, drove at once to the bureau.

"So the commissaire at Bordeaux was mistaken," said M. Claude. "That is the difficulty of descriptions, even photographs sometimes deceive. I am having several copies made of mademoiselle's, and shall send them to the principal towns." He paused, and looking at Glynn, said, "I do not approve this dÉmarche to Marseilles; M. Lambert should have confided his reasons to us. He cannot work independently; but he will make nothing by his journey. Were he here—there is a fresh and more hopeful report from Bruges this morning."

"And it is?" exclaimed Glynn, leaning forward in his chair, quivering with anticipation.

"Two ladies, one young, fair, blue-eyed and English; the other elderly, German or Russian, well-dressed and well-bred, arrived the day before yesterday at the HÔtel des Trois Couronnes. They keep most retired, and only go out in a covered carriage, to the convent of the BÉguines. The younger lady weeps a good deal, and often mentions the word 'father' with emotion. They have told their landlord that they await the coming of the young lady's father."

"This sounds more promising," cried Glynn, all eager attention.

"Were M. Lambert here he might take the journey to Bruges, and identify them. Probably he is the father they expect."

"I wish he were here, but, in his absence, I will undertake the journey; I can identify Miss Lambert."

"Do you think her father will thank you?"

"I do. Can you doubt his agonized impatience until he can get tidings of his daughter?"

"No; but there is something in the affair I cannot quite fathom."

There was a pause. "I suppose," resumed Glynn, "there is no objection to my visiting the ladies your agent describes?"

"None; in the absence of the father."

"Then I shall start at once. Give me a line of introduction to your representative. I shall telegraph to you the result of my journey. No doubt you will see M. Lambert back to-morrow."

M. Claude wrote the desired letter, and armed with it, Glynn left the bureau.

A rapid journey followed, a journey such as men make in bad dreams, with a curious sense of acting under some hideous malignant influence, a depressing anticipation of coming failure. Often in after-life the memory of that journey came back as the most painful experience of all he had ever known for years—it haunted him with thrills of horror. Little he heeded the quaint aspects of the old mediÆval town, though the picture of the streets through which he was conducted to the HÔtel des Trois Couronnes remained forever stamped upon his memory.

His anticipations were fulfilled. The ladies were both total strangers to him; he had therefore nothing for it but to apologize and retire.

Back to Paris, where Lambert had not yet returned, and M. Claude received him with cold displeasure. M. Claude was growing impatient at the unwonted failure of his emissaries. It was now six days since the disappearance of Miss Lambert, and not the faintest clue had been found by which to trace her.

The keen-eyed chef de la sÛretÉ threw himself into the pursuit with all the energy of his nature, all the professional pride that a high reputation could inspire. There was not a town of any importance in Europe where his researches did not penetrate, and yet the days rolled on, and not a trace was to be found of the missing girl. For some reasons unknown very little was said of the occurrence in the newspapers. The police, always powerful in France, were especially potent in the later days of the Empire. One or two journals mentioned the mysterious disappearance of a young lady, and the matter was dropped.

To Glynn the terrible darkness, which seemed closing in deeper and deeper with each succeeding day over the fate of the fair girl he had learned to love so passionately, was appalling. He chafed against his own hopelessness, he exhausted himself in conjectures and restless going to and fro.

When Lambert came back from his fruitless journey to Marseilles, he seemed sunk in a strange, sullen apathy, nor did he accept Glynn's well-meant efforts to comfort and sustain him with cordiality. He declared his intention of remaining in Paris as the place where the earliest tidings of his missing daughter were most likely to reach him. He had already given notice of his intention to leave his apartments, and now dismissed Madame Weber and the bonne.

"I do not know where I may have to go, or what I may have to do," he said to Glynn. "I'll hang on here till my time is up, and then I'll take a room somewhere and just wait. You are very good, Glynn; you could have done no more if you had been my poor darling's affianced lover. I little knew you were a rich man, and partner in a great firm, when I offered you her poor little portion."

"Do not speak of it," said Glynn, with inexpressible emotion; "but treat me as a trusted friend. Tell me what conjectures you have formed as to her fate."

"I believe she is dead," said Lambert in a broken voice, and covering his face. "Had she been in life she would have managed to communicate with me. Now I have nothing left to live for but revenge."

"Have you any idea where to direct your vengeance?"

"I cannot answer yes or no yet, though if I'd answer any one it would be you, Glynn."

"That means 'Yes,'" returned Glynn.

Lambert did not reply. He seemed sunk in gloomy, hard resignation to a detested destiny. "You shouldn't wait on here, Glynn," he resumed, after a minute's silence. "You can do no good,—as they didn't find her within the first week it will just be a waiting race. We'll hit on the truth just by accident, that will be the way of it."

But Glynn could not tear himself from Paris. How often he recalled the circumstances under which he had uttered these words to Elsie; they were almost the last he had spoken to her. He could almost hear the soft, tremulous tones in which she promised to listen to his reasons for not being able to tear himself away. No, it was impossible that she could have had the smallest anticipation of the dreadful catastrophe which awaited her. Yet her very last words—her last look haunted him. The questioning, wondering glance, the half-whisper—"you puzzle me!"

Twice during this miserable period of indecision Glynn encountered Vincent,—once on the stair leading to Lambert's abode, and once in the Boulevards.

In the first instance he greeted Glynn with the frankest expression of sorrow and sympathy for the great misfortune which had befallen Lambert, mentioning his own deep grief, and his compassionate forgiveness of Lambert's injurious accusations against himself.

Glynn found Lambert in a state of furious excitement after this visit, and uttering violent half-unintelligible threats against Vincent.

On their second meeting Glynn tried to pass him, but in vain, and was obliged to listen to a string of suggestions and conjectures respecting the supposed fugitive which nearly drove him to throttle his interlocutor and fling him into the street under the hoofs of the passing horses, especially as he felt that Vincent's small, penetrating, watchful eyes were intently, searchingly fixed on his face while he spoke.

At length letters from his partners obliged him to quit the scene of so much suffering and disaster.

It was with the deepest reluctance that Glynn bid Lambert good-bye. The unhappy father still wore the same aspect of helplessness, of sullen submission to the irresistible. He scarcely heeded Glynn's announcement of his immediate departure, and merely answered his ardent request for the earliest information respecting any crumbs of intelligence in the affirmative. He put Glynn's card in his pocket-book mechanically. Yet he wrung his hand hard at parting, and bid God bless him, brokenly—yet heartily.

Glynn, not satisfied with Lambert's promise, obtained an interview with M. Claude, who was even more curt and immovable than ever. He, however, condescended to promise that he would not fail to let him know should any traces of the missing girl be found.

Glynn was not perhaps fully aware of the withering change which the torture of the last three weeks had wrought in him until he attempted to resume the routine of his former life. The color and flavor seemed to have been extracted from existence, nothing was left worth hoping for, working for, living for, and the heads of his firm exclaimed at his haggard, worn aspect.

The second day after he had resumed his attendance at the office he found himself too faint and dizzy to continue the writing on which he was engaged. His head ached intensely, his pulses throbbed. He rang, and began to explain to the clerk who answered his summons that he felt so ill he must return home; but before he could finish his sentence he fell heavily at the feet of his startled hearer. He was conveyed carefully to his own residence, which he did not leave for many weeks,—not till he had been brought to the verge of the grave by a fierce brain-fever.