I will come at half-past
seven.--FLOSSIE."
Duncombe drew a little sigh of relief. At last then he was to know
something. He was very English, a bad amateur detective, and very weary
of his task. Nothing but his intense interest in the girl herself--an
interest which seemed to have upset the whole tenor of his life--would
have kept him here plodding so relentlessly away at a task which seemed
daily to present more difficulties and complications. Yet so absorbed
had he become that the ordinary duties and pleasures which made up the
routine of his life scarcely ever entered into his mind. There had been
men coming down to shoot, whom in an ordinary way he would not have
dreamed of putting off--a cricket match which had been postponed until
his return, and which he had completely forgotten. Paris had nothing in
the shape of amusement to offer him in place of these things, yet in his
own mind these things were as if they had not been. Every interest and
energy of his life was concentrated upon the one simple object of his
search.
He gave the man half a crown, and walked to the lift whistling. The
porter shook his head, and Duncombe receded considerably in his
estimation, notwithstanding the tip.
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