rancs in current coin, became very communicative. Disentangled
from layers of voluble digression, the kernel of her information
amounted to this: Mrs. Raritan and her daughter had taken the Orient
Express the day before. On the subject of their destination she declared
herself ignorant. Suppositions she had in plenty, but actual knowledge
none, and she took evident pleasure in losing herself in extravagant
conjectures. "_Bien le bonjour_," she said when Tristrem, passably
disheartened, turned to leave--"_Bien le bonjour, m'sieu; si j'ose
m'exprimer ainsi._"

The Orient Express, as Tristrem knew, goes through Southern Germany into
Austria, thence down to Buda-Pest and on to Constantinople. That Viola
and her mother had any intention of going farther than Vienna was a
thing which he declined to consider. On the way to Vienna was Stuttgart
and Munich. In Munich there was Wagner every other night. In Stuttgart
there was a conservatory of music, and at Vienna was not the Opera
world-renowned? "They have gone to one of those three cities," he told
himself. "Viola must have determined to relinquish the Italian school
for the German. H'm," he mused, "I'll soon put a stop to that. As to
finding her, all I have to do is go to the police. They keep an eye on
strangers to some purpose. Let me see--I can get to Stuttgart by
to-morrow noon. If she is not there I will go to Munich. I rather like
the idea of a stroll on the Maximilien Strasse. It would be odd if I met
her in the street. Well, if she isn't in Munich she is sure to be in
Vienna." And as he entered the Grand Hotel he smiled anew in dreams
forecast.

Tristrem carried out his programme to the end. But not in Stuttgart, not
in Munich, nor in Vienna either, could he obtain the slightest
intelligence of her. In the latter city he was overtaken by a low fever,
which detained him for a month, and from which he arose enfeebled but
with clearer mind. He wrote to Viola two letters, and two also to her
mother. One of each he sent to the Rue Scribe, the others to Founders'
Court. When ten days went by, and no answer came, he understood for the
first time what the fable of Tantalus might mean, and that of Sisyphus
too. He wrote at length to his grandfather, describing his Odyssey, his
perplexities, and asking advice. He even wrote to Jones--though much
more guardedly, of course--thanking him for his cable, and inquiring in
a post-scriptum whether he had heard anything further on the