n, and asked your permission to ask her to marry me,
you gave that permission. You did. You didn't tell me that she was
nothing to you. I don't understand you at all. You told my father a lot
of rot--"

"I told your father the truth. And, when I told you that she had left
no message for you, that was the truth also. I have no reason to believe
she cares for you--"

"And none to think that she doesn't. At all events she did not tell ME
not to follow her. She did tell you. Why are you following her?"

It was a question I could not answer--to him. That reason no one should
know. And yet what excuse could I give, after all my protestations?

"I--I feel that I have the right, everything considered," I stammered.
"She is not my niece, but she is Miss Cahoon's."

"And she ran away from both of you, asking, as a last request, that you
both make no attempt to learn where she was. The whole affair is beyond
understanding. What the truth may be--"

"Are you hinting that I have lied to you?"

"I am not hinting at anything. All I can say is that it is deuced queer,
all of it. And I sha'n't say more."

"Will you tell me--"

"I shall tell you nothing. That would be her wish, according to your own
statement and I will respect that wish, if you don't."

I rose to my feet. There was little use in an open quarrel between us
and I was by far the older man. Yes, and his position was infinitely
stronger than mine, as he understood it. But I never was more strongly
tempted. He knew where she was. He had seen her. The thought was
maddening.

He had risen also and was facing me defiantly.

"Good morning, Doctor Bayliss," said I, and walked away. I turned as I
reached the entrance of the hotel and looked back. He was still standing
there, staring at me.

That afternoon I spent in my room. There is little use describing my
feelings. That she was in Paris I was sure now. That Bayliss had seen
her I was equally sure. But why had he spoken and looked as he did
when I first spoke of Heathcroft's story? What had he meant by saying
something or other was "awful?" And why had he seemed so astonished, why
had he laughed in that strange way when I had said she was singing in a
church?

That evening I sought Monsieur Louis, the concierge, once more.

"Is there any building here in Paris," I asked, "a building in which
people sing, which is called an abbey? One that is not a church or an
abbey, but is called that?"

Louis looked at me i