. Our fellows seem to
move around us in a circle--some step out of the rank and touch us as
they pass--one, if it please God, comes out and stands beside us. John
Turner had, I suppose, touched me in passing. He was at breakfast when
I was shown into his presence.

"You are looking fresh and well," he said, in his abrupt way, "so I
suppose you are engaged in some mischief."

"Not exactly. But what I began in play is continuing in earnest."

"Yes," he said, looking at me with his easy smile while he dropped a
piece of sugar into his coffee-cup. "Yes; young men are fond of
walking into streams without ascertaining the depth on the farther
side."

"I suppose you were young yourself once?" retorted I, bringing forward
a chair.

"Yes--but I was always fat. Women always laughed at me behind my back.
And, with a woman half the fun is to let you know her intention as
she passes. I returned the compliment in my sleeve."

"I do not see what women have to do in this matter," said I.

"No--but I do. How is Mademoiselle this morning? Sit down; have a cup
of coffee, and tell me all about her."

I sat down, and related to him the events of the past night. Turner's
face was grave enough when I had finished, and I saw him note with
some surprise that he had allowed his coffee to get cold.

"I don't like the sound of it," he said. "One never knows with a
Frenchman--he is never too old to talk of his mother, or make an ass
of himself."

The English banker was of the greatest assistance to me during that
most anxious day. But we found no clew, nor discovered any reason for
the Vicomte's disappearance. I went back in the evening to the Hotel
Clericy, and there found Madame de Clericy and Lucille awaiting me,
with that calmness which is admirable when there is nothing else but
waiting to be done.

It was at eight o'clock in the evening that the explanation came, from
a source as natural as it was unexpected. A letter was delivered by
the postman for Madame de Clericy, who at once recognized her
husband's unsteady handwriting. She crossed the room, and stood
beside me while she opened the envelope. Lucille, seeing the action,
frowned, as I thought. I was still under displeasure--still learning
that the better sort of woman will not forgive deception so long as
she herself is its motive, as cheap cynics would have us believe.

Madame read the letter with that self-repression which was habitual to
her, and made me ever wonder wh