uation was that I loved one who, alas! could not
return my affection as a girl with her mental balance unaffected could
do. Her poor unbalanced brain could never allow her to understand me,
or to return my love.

I was tired after the long sleepless journey from Spain, and I suppose
I must have dozed in my chair.

I awoke suddenly, hearing a tap upon the door, and an elderly
chambermaid entered with a telegram.

I tore it open and found it had been dispatched from Castelsarrasin,
and was from Rivero, saying: "Absence unavoidable. Hope to be back by
midnight."

"Where is Castelsarrasin?" I inquired of the woman.

"It is about sixteen kilometres from here, m'sieur," replied the buxom
woman in the strong accent of Toulouse. "It is on the road to Agen and
the railway junction for Beaumont-de-Lomagne. Just a small town. They
say that the name is a corruption of Castel-sur-Azin. At least my
mother used to tell me so."

What, I wondered, had taken the head of the Madrid detective force out
there? He must be following some fresh clue.

So I went forth across the bridge to a big cafe opposite the theatre,
and there idled till nearly midnight, when I returned eagerly to meet
my friend.

He entered my room just before one o'clock in the morning, tired and
dusty, for he appeared to have walked a long distance. I had some
cognac and a syphon of seltzer awaiting him, and sinking exhausted
into a chair, he took a long and refreshing drink before he spoke.

"Well?" he said with a sigh. "You have been wondering why I
disappeared so mysteriously--eh? The fact is I was compelled. On
making inquiry of a shoemaker who has a little shop near Charles
Rabel's house I learned that the man for whom we are searching lived
in a flat on the first floor of the house kept by a widow named
Cailliot. But he was frequently absent in England or in Italy. Only
for short spells was he there, for he was a commercial traveller
representing a Lyons firm of silkweavers. As we were speaking, the
shoemaker pointed to a rather smart young woman who was at that moment
leaving the house, and said: 'Look! That is Mademoiselle Jacquelot,
the fiancee of Monsieur Charles! She might tell you where he is. I do
not think he is at home to-day. I saw him four days ago and spoke to
him as he passed. But I believe he has left again!' I thanked him, and
at once followed Mademoiselle, hence I had no time to tell you, for I
had no idea where she was going. I saw that