let him know that two English gentlemen had been inquiring for him;
one of them had left a card. With surprise and pleasure Hilliard
read the name of Robert Narramore, and beneath it, written in
pencil, an invitation to dine that evening at a certain hotel in the
Rue de Provence. As usual, Narramore had neglected the duties of a
correspondent; this was the first announcement of his intention to
be in Paris. Who the second man might be Hilliard could not
conjecture.

He arrived at the hotel, and found Narramore in company with a man
of about the same age, his name Birching, to Hilliard a stranger.
They had reached Paris this morning, and would remain only for a day
or two, as their purpose was towards the Alps.

"I couldn't stand this heat," remarked Narramore, who, in the very
lightest of tourist garbs, sprawled upon a divan, and drank
something iced out of a tall tumbler. "We shouldn't have stopped
here at all if it hadn't been for you. The idea is that you should
go on with us."

"Can't--impossible----"

"Why, what are you doing here--besides roasting?"

"Eating and drinking just what suits my digestion."

"You look pretty fit--a jolly sight better than when we met last.
All the same, you will go on with us. We won't argue it now; it's
dinner-time. Wait till afterwards."