can Paris. I knew I was going in
the wrong direction, and at length, with a queer feeling of shame,
turned and crossed to the Isle St. Louis.

Of course, the Vicomte had not done away with himself! The idea was
absurd. Aged men do not lay violent hands upon themselves. It was
different for Pawle, a friend of mine, who had shot himself as he
descended the club stairs, a ruined man. Nevertheless, I walked
instinctively towards the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and past that
building to the little square house--like a roadside railway
station--where Paris keeps her nameless dead.

Half guiltily I went in at one door and out by the other. Two men lay
on the slates--the lowest of the low--and even the sanctifying hand of
death could not allay the conviction that the world must necessarily
be the richer for their removal from it. I came away and walked
towards the river again. Standing on one of the bridges, I never knew
which, I looked down at the slow green water. As I stood a municipal
guard passed me with a suspicious glance. The clocks of the city
struck six in a solemn jangle of tones. The boats were moving on the
river--the great unwieldy barges as big as a ship. The streets were
now astir. Paris seemed huge and as populous as an ant-hill. I felt
the hopelessness of seeking unaided one who purposely hid himself in
its streets.

I went back to the Morgue and made some inquiries of the attendant
there. Nay, I did more--for why should a man be coward enough to shut
his eyes to patent fact?--I gave my name and address to the courteous
official and asked him to send for me should any news come his way. It
was plain enough that the Vicomte de Clericy had of late been in such
a state of mind that the worst fears must needs be kept in view.

I went back to the Faubourg St. Germain and crept quietly into the
house of my patron by the side door, of which he himself had given me
the key. Despite my noiseless tread, Madame was waiting for me at the
head of the stairs.

"Nothing?" she asked.

"Nothing," replied I, and avoided her persistent eyes. To share an
unspoken fear is akin to the knowledge of a common crime.

At nine o'clock I sought John Turner in his apartment in the Avenue
D'Antan, almost within a stone's throw of the British Embassy. There
are some to whom one naturally turns in time of trouble and
perplexity, while the existence of others who are equally important in
their own estimation is at such moments forgotten