ar
into the next morning. He awoke feeling very unwell, but his chief
anxiety was lest he should miss the opening of the tables; he was always
the first to begin. He rang his bell violently for Maitland. There was
no reply, and when he rang again, one of the hotel servants came up.

"Where is my man?" he inquired.

"Monsieur's man-servant took monsieur's luggage to the railway-station;
he is gone by the early train to Turin."

"Gone to Turin with my luggage?"

"Yes, with the two portmanteaus--very heavy ones."

Richard got out of bed, and dragged his weary limbs into the
dressing-room, an inner apartment, where the portmanteaus were kept for
safety. They were both gone.

"What train did the scoundrel go by? Where is my watch? Why, the villain
has taken that too! Send for the police! No; there is no time to be
lost--send a telegram. Why, he has not even left me enough money to pay
a telegram!"

All his small change was gone. Honest John had taken everything; he had
not left his young master a single sixpence. At this revelation of
the state of affairs, poor Richard, weakened as he was by his long
excitement, threw himself on the bed and burst into tears. The
attendant, to whom, as usual, he had been liberal, was affected by an
emotion so strange in an Englishman.

"Monsieur must not fret; the thief will be caught and the money
restored. It will be well, perhaps to tell the _maitre d'hotel_."

The master of the hotel appeared with a very grave face. He was
desolated to hear of the misfortune that had befallen his young guest.
Perhaps there was not quite so much taken as had been reported.

"I tell you it's all gone; more than five thousand pounds, and my watch
and chain; I have not half a franc in my possession."

"That is unfortunate indeed," said the _maitre d'hotel_, looking graver
than ever, "because there is my bill to settle."

"Oh, hang your bill!" cried Richard. "_That_ will be all right. I must
telegraph to my father at once."

"But how is monsieur to telegraph if he has no money?"

It was probably the first time in his life that the young fellow had
ever understood how inconvenient a thing is poverty. What also amazed
him beyond measure was the man's manner; yesterday, and all other
days, it had been polite to obsequiousness; now it was dry almost to
insolence. It seemed, indeed, to imply some doubt of the bona fides of
his guest--that he might not, in short, be much better than honest John
him