housand
and one theories to account for her plight; and he was still far from
the solution when he fell asleep.

CHAPTER VII

Again the mid-day sun was gilding the canopy of his couch when Paul
awoke. He sprang up and dressed hurriedly. That day he must discover
who the lady was.

Renewed inquiries of Monsieur Jacques yielded no further information.
Rose-red lips and coils of raven hair no longer made on the _maitre
d'hotel_ the same impression as in the golden days when the band
played dreamy waltzes and dashing gentlemen leaned caressingly over
dazzling shoulders.

Of the man he had felled, Paul spoke never a word. Apparently he had
vanished as he had come--unknown.

"Truly, Sir Paul, there has been no lady here to answer your
description. But stop! A Russian lady perhaps, you say? _Il est
possible._" Monsieur Jacques laid a searching finger on his
speculative brow. "Mademoiselle Vseslavitch, _peut-etre_. Yes--tall,
surely,--a brunette, too, like most of those Russians. She left this
morning, quite early."

Paul's heart leaped, only to stop again at the last sentence.

"Left? Where did she go, _mon ami_?" He and Monsieur Jacques were good
friends, and Paul knew that his interest, though perhaps unaccountable
to the old inn-keeper, was still in safe hands.

"That I do not know. But we shall see what we shall see. One moment,
Monsieur."

Calling a porter, the _maitre d'hotel_ gesticulated with him for a
moment. Then he returned to where Paul waited impatiently.

"Emil here says that he purchased bookings to Langres for the lady,"
he said.

Langres! Isabella and London were a million miles from Langres at that
instant! The memory of that kiss alone remained.

Paul's mind was made up. He would start for Langres that very day. He
hurried to his rooms, where Baxter was soon packing his boxes. And
then Paul's eye fell on the table, on the picture of Isabella that he
had brought with him. She had given him an excellent likeness, in a
leather case, the day he came away. Her frank eyes seemed to smile at
him amusedly.

Paul pulled himself together.

"I am mad!" he told himself--"to be carried away by a momentary
impulse, to forget all for a fancied resemblance!... Paris! Baxter!"
he said curtly, turning to his valet.

And when Paul reached the station it was with the firmest of
resolutions to hurry home, stopping only one night in Paris to break
the tiresome journey.

"_En voiture!_" the guards s