A dingy old den enough is the Hotel Tirlemont, with its low-arched
_porte-cochere_, and its narrow windows, small-paned and iron-barred.
It rather resembles one of those antiquated hostels you see in the
background of an Ostade or a Teniers than the smart edifice which
we nowadays look for in an hotel. Such was certainly the opinion of
Annesley Beecher as he arrived there on the evening after that parting
with Davis we have just spoken of. Twice did he ask the guide who
accompanied him if this was really the Tirlemont, and if there were not
some other hotel of the same name; and while he half hesitated whether
he should enter, a waiter respectfully stepped forward to ask if he
were the gentleman whose apartment had been ordered by Captain Davis,--a
demand to which, with a sullen assent, he yielded, and slowly mounted
the stairs.

"Is the Captain at home?" asked he.

"No, sir; he went off to the railway station to meet you. Mademoiselle,
however, is upstairs."

"Mademoiselle!" cried Beecher, stopping, and opening wide his eyes in
astonishment. "This _is_ something new," muttered he. "When did she
come?"

"Last night, sir, after dinner."

"Where from?"

"From a Pensionnat outside the Porte de Scharbeck, I think, sir; at
least, her maid described it as in that direction."

"And what is she called,--Mademoiselle Violette, or Virginie, or Ida, or
what is it, eh?" asked he, jocularly.

"Mademoiselle, sir,--only Mademoiselle,--the Captain's daughter!"

"His daughter!" repeated he, in increased wonderment, to himself. "Can
this be possible?"

"There is no doubt of it, sir. The lady of the Pensionnat brought her
here last night in her own carriage, and I heard her, as she entered the
salon, say, 'Now, Mademoiselle, that I have placed you in the hands of
your father--' and then the door closed."

"I never knew he had a daughter," muttered Beecher to himself. "Which is
my room?"

"We have prepared this one for you, but to-morrow you shall have a more
comfortable one, with a look-out over the lower town."

"Put me somewhere where I sha'n't hear that confounded piano, I beg of
you. Who is it rattles away that fashion?"

"Mademoiselle, sir."

"To be sure,--I ought to have guessed it; and sings too, I'll be bound?"

"Like Grisi, sir," responded the waiter, enthusiastically; for the
Tirlemont, being frequented by the artistic class, had given him great
opportunity for forming his taste.

Just at this moment a r