by the contrast. He threw his valise on the seat of a fiacre standing
near the crossway, and drove to the office of Galignani in the Rue de
Rivoli--the morgue in which the names of all foreign travellers are
daily laid out for recognition. The third name Lynde fell upon was that
of William Denham, Hotel Meurice. The young man motioned to the driver
to follow him and halt at the hotel entrance, which was only a few steps
further in the arcade facing the gardens of the Tuileries.

Mr. Denham was at breakfast in the small salon opening on the paved
square formed by the four interior walls of the building; he had just
seated himself at the table, which was laid for two persons, when the
waiter brought him Mrs. Denham's note and Lynde's card. Mr. Denham
glanced from one to the other, and then broke the seal of the envelope
with a puzzled air which directly changed into a perturbed expression.

"Show the gentleman in here," he said, speaking over the top of the
note-sheet to the servant, "and set another cover."

It was a strongly featured person of fifty or fifty-five, slightly bald,
and closely shaven with the exception of a heavy iron-gray mustache, who
rose from the chair and stepped forward to meet Lynde as he entered.
Lynde's name was familiar to Mr. Denham, it having figured rather
prominently in his wife's correspondence during the latter part of the
sojourn at Geneva.

"You have placed us all under deep obligations to you, sir," said Mr.
Denham, with a smile in which the severity of his features melted.

"The obligations are on my side, sir," replied Lynde. "I owe Mrs. Denham
a great many kindnesses. I wish I could have found some happier way than