Ah,
Monsieur, so many ask that; but alas! we do not know."

"But you do know where she lives," I urged. "You must know her home
address. Give me that. It is of the greatest importance that I see her
at once."

At first he declared that he did not know her address, the address where
she lodged. I persisted and, at last, he admitted that he did know it,
but that he was bound by the most solemn promise to reveal it to no one.

"It was her wish, Monsieur. It was a part of the agreement under which
she sang for us. No one should know who she was or where she lived. And
I--I am an honorable man, Monsieur. I have promised and--" the business
of shoulders and hands again--"my pledged word to a lady, how shall it
be broken?"

I found a way to break it, nevertheless. A trio of gold pieces and the
statement that I was her uncle did the trick. An uncle! Ah, that was
different. And, Mademoiselle had consented to see me when I came before,
that was true. She had seen the young English gentleman also--but we
two only. Was the young English Monsieur--"the Doctor Baylees"--was he a
relative also?

I did not answer that question. It was not his business and, beside, I
did not wish to speak of Herbert Bayliss.

The address which the manager of L'Abbaye gave me, penciled on a card,
was a number in a street in Montmartre, and not far away. I might easily
have walked there, I was quite strong enough for walking now, but I
preferred a cab. Paris motor cabs, as I knew from experience, moved
rapidly. This one bore me to my destination in a few minutes.

A stout middle-aged French woman answered my ring. But her answer to my
inquiries was most unsatisfactory. And, worse than all, I was certain
she was telling me the truth.

The Mademoiselle was no longer there, she said. She had given up
her room three days ago and had gone away. Where? That, alas, was a
question. She had told no one. She had gone and she was not coming back.
Was it not a pity, a great pity! Such a beautiful Mademoiselle! such an
artiste! who sang so sweetly! Ah, the success she had made. And such a
good young lady, too! Not like the others--oh, no, no, no! No one was to
know she lodged there; she would see no one. Ah, a good girl, Monsieur,
if ever one lived.

"Did she--did she go alone?" I asked.

The stout lady hesitated. Was Monsieur a very close friend? Perhaps a
relative?

"An uncle," I said, telling the old lie once more.

Ah, an uncle! It was all right th