from
Marseilles.

I wrote briefly, telling the damp lady of the rectory (only at greater
length) what I have told here. My main motive in doing this was, I
confess, to obtain, through Mrs. Finch, some news of Lucilla. After
posting the letter, I attended to another duty which I had neglected
while my father was in danger of death. I went to the person to whom my
lawyer had recommended me, to institute that search for Oscar which I had
determined to set on foot when I left London. The person was connected
with the police, in the capacity (as nearly as I can express it in
English) of a sort of private superintendent--not officially recognized,
but secretly trusted for all that.

When he heard of the time that had elapsed without any discovery of the
slightest trace of the fugitive, he looked grave; and declared, honestly
enough, that he doubted if he could reward my confidence in him by
proving himself to be of the slightest service to me. Seeing, however,
that I was earnestly bent on making some sort of effort, he put a last
question to me in these terms:--"You have not described the gentleman
yet. Is there, by lucky chance, anything remarkable in his personal
appearance?"

"There is something very remarkable, sir," I answered. "Describe it
exactly, ma'am, if you please."

I described Oscar's complexion. My excellent superintendent showed
encouraging signs of interest as he listened. He was a most
elegantly-dressed gentleman, with the gracious manners of a prince. It
was quite a privilege to be allowed to talk to him.

"If the missing man has passed through France," he said, "with such a
remarkable face as that, there is a fair chance of finding him. I will
set preliminary inquiries going at the railway station, at the
steam-packet office, and at the port. You shall hear the result
to-morrow."

I went back to good Papa's bedside--satisfied, so far.

The next day, my superintendent honored me by a visit.

"Any news, sir?" I asked.

"News already, ma'am. The clerk at the steam-packet office perfectly well
remembers selling a ticket to a stranger with a terrible blue face.
Unhappily, his memory is not equally good, as to other matters. He cannot
accurately call to mind, either the name of the stranger, or the place
for which the stranger embarked. We know that he must either have gone to
some port in Italy, or to some port in the East. And, thus far, we know
no more.

"What are we to do next?" I inquired.