shall meet again some day, and meanwhile keep a kindly remembrance of
your friend

FRANCINE DE CORANTIN.


She gave no address.

Bobby read the letter again and again; he could hardly believe his eyes.
The worst thing that could possibly happen had befallen him. Where could
she have gone, and why couldn't she tell him, and oh, how could he have
been such a fool as to have gone on sleeping like a stupid log at the
moment that she was going away? He would never be able to forgive himself
for that. Was there any connection between her departure and her meeting
with Alistair Ramsey? Bobby tried to concentrate his mind on the problem,
but it baffled him.

Completely bewildered, he cross-questioned the hall porter, but he could
add nothing to what he had already said. Madame de Corantin had gone and
she had left no address and he had not the slightest idea where, nor did
he know to what station she had gone. A car had come for her, apparently
a private one, she had not ordered it at the hotel. What trains were
there leaving? Oh, there were numbers; there was one to Rouen and Havre
and also to Dieppe about that time, to Bordeaux and San Sebastian, to all
kinds of places. Bobby realized the utter hopelessness of attempting to
trace her. Wretchedly the hours passed; in the middle of the afternoon he
decided that whatever happened he would not stay another night in Paris.
The thought of it sickened him. Paris, the hotel, and everything else had
become hateful. No, he would spend that night at Dieppe, and go to London
the next day, that was all he could think of.