don, he
having a year or two before been mainly instrumental in the breaking up
of a Nihilist society in Russia, and in bringing to the scaffold its
chief and most active member, a young Russian of noble birth. The
second explosion, which had done less damage, and was happily
unattended by any serious results beyond the partial wrecking of the
house, was at the private residence of a well-known English Detective.
The latest news was that there was a clue to the perpetrators of both
outrages.

Doctor Brudenell tossed aside the paper, shrugging his shoulders as at
a madman's irresponsible rashness and folly, and turned his attention
to the patient who just then came in. That patient and the many
succeeding patients thought the Doctor odd this morning, brusque,
absent, constrained, gruff. He was thinking of Alexia, wondering what
she would say to him, wondering still more what he would say to her.
The room was empty at last; and he went back to the dining-room and
rang again for Mrs. Jessop. He could not face the day's round of work
without seeing her first. Mrs. Jessop was asked to inquire if
Mademoiselle could see him now. The housekeeper went, and returned
looking rather puzzled. Mademoiselle was not down-stairs yet, although
her breakfast was cold and the children were waiting to begin their
lessons. Mrs. Jessop was alarmed; her master wondered, and felt anxious.

"She may be ill," he said; "you say she complained last night. Go and
see. Stay--I'll come up-stairs with you!"

He did so. At the governess's door Mrs. Jessop knocked softly and
waited, knocked loudly and waited. Then, in obedience to a gesture from
the Doctor, she tried to open the door. The handle yielded instantly;
and she, looking in, cried out:

"Sir, she isn't here!"

The bed was untouched, had not been slept in. The housekeeper looked
frightened at the Doctor's white face as he glanced round the room.

"Call her brother. He has not been seen either. Quick!"

A couple of curious maids, lingering on the stairs, ran up the next
flight to obey. There was the sound of knocking at panels, a pause, and
a cry at which George Brudenell felt his heart turn cold, for he
understood what it meant. That room was vacant too!

He sent all the women away, and examined Alexia's apartment himself.
There was not a line of writing, not a trace or clue of any sort to
explain this mystery. A few articles of clothing were scattered
carelessly about on the chairs an