“

For the first time in my life,” Deyes declared, accepting the cigarette and the easy-chair, “I have appreciated Paris. I have gone there as a tourist. I have drunk strange drinks at the CafÉ de la Paix. I have sat upon the boulevards and ogled the obvious lady.”

“And my little guide?” she asked.

“Has disappeared!” he answered.

“Since when?”

“A month ago! It is reported that he came to England.”

Wilhelmina sat still for several moments. To a casual observer she might have seemed unmoved. Deyes, however, was watching her closely, and he understood.

“I am sorry,” he said, “to have so little to tell you. But that is the beginning and the end of it. The man had gone away.”

“That is precisely what I desired to ascertain,” she said. “It seemed to me possible that the man had come to England. I wished to know for certain whether it was true or not.”

“I think,” Deyes said, withdrawing his cigarette and looking at it thoughtfully, “that it is true.”

“You have any further reason for thinking so,” she asked, “beyond your casual inquiries?”

“Well, yes!” he admitted. “I went a little farther than those casual inquiries. It seemed such a meagre report to bring you.”

“Go on!”

“The ordinary person,” he continued smoothly, “would never believe the extreme difficulty with which one collects any particulars as to the home life of a guide. More than once I felt inclined to give up the task in despair. It seemed to me that a guide could have no home, that he must sleep in odd moments on a bench at the HÔtel de Luxe. I tried to fancy a guide in the bosom of his family, carving a Sunday joint, and surrounded by Mrs. Guide and the little Guides. I couldn’t do it. It seemed to me somehow grotesque. Just as I was giving it up in despair, the commissionaire at a night cafÉ in Montmartre told me exactly what I wanted to know. He showed me the house where Johnny, as they called him, had a room.”

“You went there?” she asked.

“I did,” he answered.

“It was locked up?”

“On the contrary,” he declared, “Mrs. or Miss Guide was at home, and very pleased to see me.”

“There was a woman there?”

“Assuredly. Whether she is there now or not I cannot say, for it is three days ago, and to me she seemed nearer than that to death!”

“And about this woman! What was she like? Was she his wife or his daughter?”

“He called her his daughter. I am not sure about the relationship. She had been good-looking, I should say, but she was very ill.”

“What did she tell you—about the man Johnson?”

“That he had gone to England to try to get some money. They were almost destitute! He was a good guide, she said, but people came so often to Paris, and they liked some one fresh. Then she coughed—how she coughed!”

“Did she tell you to what part of England the man Johnson had gone?”

“I asked her, but she was not sure. I do not believe that she knew. She said that there was some one in England who was very rich, and from whom he hoped to be able to get money.”

“Anything else?”

“No! I spoke of myself as an old client of Johnny’s, and I left money. Afterwards, at the cafÉ where I lunched, I found a commissionaire who told me more about our friend.”

“Ah! What was the name of the cafÉ?”

“The CafÉ de Paris!”

She took up a screen and held it before her face. There seemed to be little need of it, however, for her cheeks were as pale as the white roses by her side.

“This man Johnny, as they call him,” Deyes continued, “seems to have had his ups and downs. One big stroke of luck he had, however, which seems to have kept him going for several years. The commissionaire was able to tell me something about it. Shall I go on?” he asked, dropping his voice a little.

“I should like to know what the commissionaire told you,” she answered.

“Somehow or other this fellow, Johnny or Johnson as some of them called him, was recommended to a young lady, a very young lady, who was in Paris with an invalid chaperon.”

“Stop!” she cried.

He looked at her fixedly.

“You were that young lady,” he said softly. “Of course, I know that!”

“I was,” she admitted. “Don’t speak to me for a few moments. It was years ago—but——”

She bent the screen which she held in her hand until the handle snapped.

“You seem,” she said, “to have rather exceeded your instructions. I simply wanted to know whether the man was in Paris or not.”

He bowed.

“The man is in England,” he said. “Don’t you think it might be helpful if you gave me more of your confidence, and told me why you wanted to hear about him?”

She shook her head.

“I would sooner tell you than any one, Gilbert,” she said, “but I do not want to talk about it.”

“It must be as you will, of course,” he answered, “but I hope you will always remember that you could do me no greater kindness—at any time—than to make use of my services. I do not know everything of what happened in Paris—about that time. I do not wish to know. I am content to serve you—blindly.”

“I will not forget that,” she said softly. “If ever the necessity comes I will remind you. There! Let that be the end of it.”

She changed the subject, giving him to understand that she did not wish to discuss it further.

“You are for Marienbad, as usual?” she asked.

“Next week,” he answered. “One goes from habit, I suppose. No waters upon the earth or under it will ever cure me!”

“Liver?” she asked.

“Heart!” he declared.

“You shouldn’t smoke so many cigarettes.”

“Harmless,” he assured her. “I don’t inhale.”

“I think,” she said, “that I shall come over next month.”

“Do!” he begged. “I’ll answer for the bridge. May I come and lunch to-morrow?”

She turned to a red morocco book by her side.

“A bishop and Lady Sarah,” she said. “Several more parsons, and I think the duchess.”

“I’ll face ’em,” he declared.

“I think I shall send for Peggy,” Wilhelmina said. “She is always so sweet to the Church.”

Deyes grinned.

“I shall go round and look her up,” he declared. “Perhaps she’ll come and have lunch with me somewhere.”

She held out her hand.

“You’re a good sort to have gone over for me,” she said. “The things you tumbled up against you’d better forget.”

“Until you remind me of them,” he said. “Very well, I’ll do that. Sorry I didn’t run Johnny to earth.”

He went off, and Wilhelmina after a few minutes went to her desk and wrote a letter to Stephen Hurd.

Wilhelmina laid down her pen and looked thoughtfully through the window into the square. A policeman was coming slowly along the pavement. She watched him approach and pass the house, his eyes still fixed in front of him, his whole appearance stolid and matter-of-fact to the last degree. She watched him disappear with fascinated eyes. After all, he represented great things; behind him was a whole national code; the machinery of which he was so small a part drove the wheels of life or death. She turned away from the window with a shrug of the shoulders. Humming a tune, she threw herself back in her chair, and began the leisurely perusal of her letters.