Had Ramsey gone to bed? The more Bobby turned it over in his mind the
stronger his suspicions grew, and then came a moment of desperation--he
must know, he could not bear the suspense. His own room was two floors
above that on which was Madame de Corantin's apartment. Declining the
lift, he walked slowly upstairs, and as though he were doing so by
mistake, directed his steps softly past the door of her salon. No one was
in the corridor, and noiselessly he approached the door. Was that a man's
voice? Yes, there was not a doubt of it. He listened again, he looked up
and down the passage, no one was in sight. He placed his head close to
the woodwork of the door; with a sense of ignominy he realized that if
there had been a keyhole he would have placed his ear to that--anything
to know--anything. Yes, he recognized Ramsey's voice distinctly; he was
there. On tiptoe he retraced his steps. Arrived at the entrance hall he
flung himself into a chair, a prey to utter wretchedness.

* * * * *

Somehow the night passed.

Towards morning, perhaps at six or seven, he fell into a heavy sleep,
completely worn out by his mental sufferings. He awoke late, and,
glancing at his watch, saw to his horror that it was already eleven
o'clock. Cursing himself as he realized that this was the hour at which
Madame de Corantin generally went out, he rang the bell. How he longed
for his trusted valet, enlisted two months back. Now he had only a hotel
servant to send on messages. When the man arrived he dispatched him
instantly to find out whether Madame de Corantin had sent him any
message, and began to dress hurriedly. The servant did not return, and in
his impatience Bobby cursed him and rang again. Another servant appeared