He must see her, at once--at once.

Yet--what if it were not she, after all? If the name were a coincidence?
There might be other Evelyn Cliffords in the world. It must be that this
was another. His Evelyn had married a rich and titled Englishman. She
was Lady Clifford. The things that had happened to Rosemary's Angel
could not have happened to her. Still, he must know, and know quickly.

"Where do you live, little Rosemary?" he asked, grimly schooling his
voice, when he felt that he could trust himself to speak.

"The Hotel Pensior Beau Soleil, Rue Girasole, in the Condamine, Monte
Carlo," answered the child, as if she were repeating a lesson she had
been taught to rattle off by heart.

Lost as he was to most external things, Hugh roused himself to some
surprise at the name of the hotel.

"Why, that is where Mademoiselle de Lavalette and her mother live!" he
exclaimed.

"They're the ladies Angel lent the money to, because she was so sorry
for them," said Rosemary. "I've heard them talking about it with her,
and saying they can't pay it back. They're angry with her for asking,
but she had to, you see. When they go past us in the dining-room they
turn their backs."

Hugh's attention was arrested now.

"Do they dine?" he asked. "Every night?"