visitors to Paris remain quite unaware that there is, within half an hour
of the French capital, such a spot; the minority, those tourists who do
make their way to the alluring little place, generally live to regret it.

But Sylvia knew nothing, nay, less than nothing, of all this, and even if
she had known, it would not have stayed her steps to-day.

She put on her hat and hurried down to the office. There M. Girard would
doubtless tell her of a good train to Lacville, and if it were a small
place she might easily run across Anna Wolsky.

M. Girard was a very busy man, yet he always found time for a talk with
any foreign client of his hotel.

"I want to know," said Sylvia, smiling in spite of herself, for the
hotel-keeper was such a merry-looking little man, and so utterly
different from any English hotel-keeper she had ever seen!--"I want to
know, M. Girard, which is the best way to a place called Lacville? Have
you ever been there?"

"Lacville?" echoed M. Girard delightedly; but there came a rather funny
look over his shrewd, round face. "Yes, indeed, I have been there,
Madame! Not this season yet, but often last summer, and I shall be going
there shortly again. I have a friend there--indeed, he is more than a
friend, he is a relation of mine, who keeps the most select hotel at
Lacville. It is called the Villa du Lac. Is Madame thinking of going to
Lacville instead of to Switzerland?"

Sylvia shook her head. "Oh, no! But Madame Wolsky is there to-day, and I
should have gone with her if I had been ready when she came down. It has